


Swords Our Law

by StudioRat



Series: Nothing Emboldens Sin So Much As Mercy [1]
Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Majora's Mask, The Legend of Zelda: The Ocarina of Time
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Age difference in a background relationship, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Anonymous Sex, Bisexual Male Character, Biting, Canon Typical Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Conlang, Demon Summoning, Emotional Sex, Eventual Smut, Explicit Consent, First Time, Ganondorf canonically commands ghosts and skeletons, Group Sex, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, In this AU Gan is a doting young father and you cannot change my mind, Jealousy, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Longing, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Memories, Moderately bloody, Necromancy, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Polyamory, Power Dynamics, Prior trauma, Resurrection, SMUT FOR THE SMUT GODS, Sexual Roleplay, Sexual exploration, Size Difference, Temporary Character Death, The necromancy is unrelated to the smut, safeword, the necromancy is in the background ok, timefuckery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 122,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21942406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StudioRat/pseuds/StudioRat
Summary: Ganondorf, King and Protector of the Geld'o is 21, and it is early in the sixth year of his reign.The wars and provincial feuds are quiet whether they want to be or not - the Hylian armies under the command of Geld'o Rocs and Firsts control every navigable road in every province. Taxes and tribute flow smoothly toward the capital for the first time in generations, and the Hylian High Council is near to approving official Articles of Unification.Ganondorf stands at the right hand of the Hylian High King.For now.Princess Zelda makes no secret of her hatred for their desert-born ally. She bears the gift of true prophecy as her mother did before her, and she knows he seeks the Divine Relic.She is right aboutalmosteverything: when the forces of chaos reach high tide at winter solstice, a Blood Moonwillrise in full glory above the ancient Spirit Gate in the depths of the Sand Sea.What she doesnotknow is Ganondorf would sell his soul, his sisters, andeverythinghe's ever held sacred tostopthe Dark Rites from ushering The Great Destroyer into His chosen vessel...
Relationships: Ganondorf/Link, Ganondorf/Original Character(s)
Series: Nothing Emboldens Sin So Much As Mercy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1579960
Comments: 115
Kudos: 124





	1. Knowledge

**Author's Note:**

> Conscience is but a word that cowards use  
> Devised at first to keep the strong in awe  
> Our strong arms be our conscience, swords our law
> 
> \----- King Richard Act 5 scene 3

The bones of Hyrule Castle and Royal Temples to shackled Hylian gods thrust through soil and rock with complete disregard for natural law. Nothing about the smooth ornamented columns carried the mark of mortal artisans, yet they also lacked the fey, improbable elegance of immortal hands. 

“Every thumb’s length mage wrought,” Ganondorf muttered to his shadow. He marked time by the decay of his only companion: a tiny magelight of writhing greengold light, flickering now and in want of a third helping of power. “And yet the labyrinth continues. Williric my boy - did you hunt the mageborn to _kill_ them or _enslave_ them-?”

The cold stones did not answer. 

He trudged on.

Hour after hour, corridor after corridor, searching walls of Shaped and living rock for every hidden panel, every crack, lever, switch, bone and cache. _One of the turns must reveal a secret worth more than paltry rupee._

The scholar in him marked his notes with coordinates of every change in the bas relief, every scrap of graffiti, every marked gem and ancient weapon abandonded . For later. If later ever came.

The location and types of bones he did not bother - every damned corner held _some_ number - more after he passed. After the first day, he stopped counting how many packrats and caverats and bombachu and morth and Keese and other minor beastly annoyances he destroyed.

“It will be good for Sebastian to wonder what keeps me on whatever mission he wanted this time. Avish will handle it,” he told his magelight as he fed it another handful of rupee shards and crystallized rage from one of the topaz beads sewn to his arming suit. “Two more hours, _then_ food. This entire quadrant has been a righteous _waste_ . I don’t _need_ any more stalynel.”

His magelight brightened, shifting towards an eerie and noxious pink. Technically, _red_ came next in the summoning order, but his stomach turned at the thought. Though the granite here was gray and black and blue, not iron-rich red-browns; though the air was damp instead of dusty; though he searched with every advantage years of training and study and sacrifice could afford, red light _reminded_ him.

Ganondorf cut the thought short and stalked down another passage, counting steps back to the quadrant gate. He’d searched the corridors around that gate the first day, but all too often hidden mechanisms triggered set-spells in more than one area. He could potentially lose _months_ combing for a door that might or might not exist somewhere in the cursed darkness.

The temples above refused him. 

The guardians of the three prime elements refused him. 

The Sacred Princess refused him.

And still the blood moon would rise at nadir on solstice night three months hence, indifferent to the lives of men. 

By the grace - or perhaps cruelty - of the distant gods, on the sixth day, accompanied by the rich amber light of the ancestors, he found a new path.

He almost walked past it. He could not swear what about the rotting fresco held his eye long enough to notice the matte gleam of ancient metal hiding beneath. The abstracted figural procession fenced in by rigid sacred geometry was the same pattern as everywhere else in this level of the first quadrant. The coordinates didn’t quite correspond to the above temples either - unless his lodestones and counting threads were corrupted by some ancient Hylian enchantment, the irregularity lay about half a mile directly beneath gardens. 

Monastery gardens, of course, but gardens nonetheless.

Plaster crumbled under his hand.

Familiar corroded engravings teased his fingertips.

He tucked his little notebook back in the hidden pocket at the top of his cuisses, secured the lodestones in _their_ pocket in his vambrace and applied himself to the methodical destruction of priceless ancient fresco. It was distantly possible that careful study of the seemingly repetitive procession in fact held subtle variations that could eventually be identified as various historical figures. That the flaking pigment and layered plaster and gauze would hold secrets of their makers. That the holes burned in the history of his country and of Hyrule and all her neighbors could be mended with the dust in his hands.

Six hours of work scraped his fingertips bloody, forced him to stop and slather healing chu jelly on his hands more often than he liked to. The door slowly emerged, grooved and pitted and corroded by calcium and lime, but nonetheless the same ancient metal found throughout the box canyons and mines in his homeland. At the center, the same abstracted, winged figure. Four feathers on each wing. Surrounded by spirit winds. Circled by a single deeply incised, jagged border with crenel-shaped teeth.

Ganondorf dug a narrow leather tube from its place in the straps of the other cuisses, carefully tipping from its safety a bright enchanted arrow. The engraving on the broadhead echoed the wing design, and the inscriptions writhing up the shaft repeated an abbreviated incantation to Light. He held the tip against the winged carving, gathering power in his fist. With a single Word, he cast a tidy cord of lightning through the arrow and into the door.

The door ceased to exist.

Not that it vanished through the ether, nor yet did it explode, or even vaporize into a fine-grained puff of deadly silica. It just flashed blue-white, and _ceased to be_ , in _any_ realm.

Stale air flowed past him from the unrelieved darkness beyond.

Ganondorf did not pray.

Eighteen stairs down.

Sharp, pale gray granite slabs, each cut wide as the axle of a two-horse war chariot and as deep as three Hylian paces. To left and right, pushed against the frescoed walls, fat clay pots of common terracotta, banded with chalk white and spirals of heartsblood red to the right and lurid new-grass green to the left. Magelight reflected off tesselated polychrome ornament moving through the six sacred colors in the Hylian religion, lined in bone black and lead white. A banishing progression in the descent, a summoning one if rising. 

_A strange order of things - unless whatever they’ve sealed here they intend to exile from all worlds-? Yet why lavish so much art on a criminal, an apostate?_

At the base of the stair, two cold naptha torches, three-sided prisms taller than himself. One gold, one silver. Both inscribed with the same six-strand infinite plait on each face, the twists mirrored - sunwise to the left, counter-spun to the right. Between, another door of ancient metal. The relief bore the same pattern as the last, though despite some time-softening at the edges, here the design remained clear. Subtle spirals filled the space between the four feathers of each wing.

Ganondorf sighed, stealing a moment to study every part of the design, inscribing it on his memory. He considered summoning the materials to take an impression of it, despite the cost of pulling anything through as much stone as divided him from the rest of the mortal world. If in fact he hadn’t crossed into one of the spirit realms days ago. It would make for fascinating study at leisure later. “Always _later_ . Mother of Sands - this is a _priceless_ relic.”

He raised the arrow a second time, pressing it gently to the heart of the design.

Another bolt. Another flash. Another ancient enchantment persuaded to accept the power of Light from his hand. Another artifact lost forever.

“It is necessary,” he rumbled to the emptiness where the door had been.

The central chamber opened in a perfect hexagon, the cold granite hidden beneath mosaic spirals of malachite and jade, aventurine, green agate, and green marble. Opposite the stair, another door of ancient metal waited. Ganondorf circled the room, studying the abstracted patterns of curves and spirals covering the walls around each of the six doorways. Each door was bordered in gilded infinity knotwork and surmounted by glass medallions in each of the sacred colors, impressed with the symbol of its element. The stair up into the labyrinth lay under the sign of spirit, which surprised him even more than the frescos had. The other door lay under the seal of the forest. At the center of the chamber stood a footed cobalt glass casket, painted with complex patterns of vines and leaves in pure gold. The feet were cast in the shape of a heavy knotwork triskel wrapped around a golden orb. More golden knotwork climbed up the sides of the casket and girdled the lid.

An idealized sculpture of a golden wolf rested on top of the glass casket, one paw resting on an apple carved of red corundum. Beside the apple lay a spray of borage flowers made of enameled gold and faceted sapphire. The shadows inside the glass hinted at some ancient interred within, but he hesitated to reach his spirit toward it yet. Whatever soul lay sealed here had been sealed for good reason. The peaceful pose and expression of the wolf lay in stark contrast to the rune of war marking his brow, inlaid with flawless emeralds.

“The unknown hands who laid him here surely  _ wanted _ him to rest,” murmured Ganondorf to the star-painted barrel vault crowning the silent tomb. “But does he-? And is he old enough to know of another Sacred Gate, forgotten to history? Perhaps one  _ not _ keyed to the motherline of Zeldas alone?”

His voice did not echo - it should have, with so many hard surfaces. Some spell woven into the place absorbed sound even more thoroughly than the thumb-thick quilted tapestries he hung in his private bedroom in his palace. Ganondorf did not sense any active magic in the tomb aside from his own - but inspection of the four storage chambers branching off the center suggested the whole place was designed from the first to seal and suppress enchantment of every sort. Under the sign of water, he found crates of hundreds, maybe thousands of firerock arrows, faceted fire-rock blades and spears, and stabilized fireflower and similar incendiaries, stacked to the roof on both long sides. At the back, an ironwood armorstand held minish-weave chainmail a quilted red tunic, and ruby-studded jewels. On the wall behind it hung hammers and blades from half a dozen Goron forgemasters. 

Under the sign of fire, crates of freezestone arrows and similar blades and spears of the same. One chest held nothing but shed zora scales, another held a hundred bottles of dried fish. The armor stand displayed a masterwork of Zora scalemail, iron-bound boots, sapphires jewels, and a blue sharkskin tunic. The back wall displayed Zora tridents, curved silver swords with relief cuts and charged beryls to aid the bearer in fighting underwater, and strange chain-and-hook weapons which would savage any flesh their barbs touched. Under the sign of shadow, gilded trunks of light arrows exactly like the one he stole from the castle sanctum. One smaller casket held a handful of topaz baubles. No armor stood in that chamber, and the back wall held only one weapon: a golden double-recurve war bow sized for someone shorter than even the average run of Hylians. The grip was bound in silk sacred cloth, and the string marked with tiny knots of sky and rust where the archers’ fingers would rest. Beside it hung a quiver likewise of Geld’o design - black, with rust-colored crenel borders and straps, marked across the body with the sacred pattern of the Gods’ Teeth.

“Why was a Hylian warrior buried with trophies of the People? These are too small for any golden warrior,” he murmured, testing the draw strength of the bow. Which proved formidable - even for him. He’d never been terribly skilled in archery, but he could set a ballista cord in its hook by hand. The strength of a warrior who could be comfortable with such a weapon boggled the mind. “Tribute arms, perhaps? Never meant to be used in this life?”

He returned the bow to its hooks, impressed by the preservation spell allowing it to remain strung and functional after uncounted centuries in the darkness. The chamber under the sign of Light held no weapons at all, only masks, winged spurs, and a small casket of Sheikah-made truthlenses. The masks reflected every people, nation, beast, and monster in the known world. Many were death masks, elaborately decorated but with no provision whatever for sight or breath. “Companions to the warrior? Fallen before him? Captives? Conquered enemies sacrificed on his death?”

The masks offered no answer.

His magelight flickered.

Ganondorf paced one last circuit around the central chamber of the mysterious tomb, engraving it all on his memory. He could spend no more time on it, howsoever compelling the puzzle. He needed to find an alternate route to the Sacred Gate, and he needed it three months ago. He opened the final door under the sign of forest without much real expectation of finding anything useful beyond it.

Eighteen steps. 

Leading up.

Green-banded pots to the right, red to the left.

Ganondorf frowned.

Two triangular torch pillars. Silver to the left. Gold to the right.

Ganondorf climbed, unsettled by the mirrored order in the tesselated fresco.

The stairs ended abruptly at a wall.

Not a door of metal or stone or wood.

A wall.

Painted to  _ look _ like a door.

A single, left handprint marred the design at the center, cinnabar-red.

Ganondorf held his own hand near it, frowning at the delicate scale of the marking.

He returned to the central room, searching the casket for any sign of a name. There was none. The glass was too thick, and too darkly pigmented to see the body within, except that it appeared to be more than bones. “Who  _ are _ you-?”

Nothing answered him.

A tentative tendril of spirit extended toward it likewise found nothing - but as he poured more power into the magic, grain by grain, the glass grew warm under his hand. A thin fog seemed to condense on the inside of the lid, just under the wolf’s left paw.

On which he noticed a subtle engraving he’d overlooked before.

An equal-sided triangle inverted inside another.

“ _ The triforce, _ ” he breathed in awe.


	2. Spirit

Ganondorf sat on the cold granite stairs, elbows propped on his knees, fists nested under his chin. He did not pray, though he considered it. Nor did he voice any of the hundred thousand questions chasing themselves around the inside of his head.

_ What is there to say when  _ **_that_ ** _ exists-? _

The ‘that’ in question being the pale, highborn Hylian man enshrined in the cobalt-glass casket, neither living nor dead, but something  _ other _ entirely. It was no longer accurate to call the six-armed chamber a tomb.  **_Yet_ ** _. It does not hold a corpse  _ **_yet_ ** _. _

_ I look at him, and I feel that I stare at my own death. If I attempt to awaken him - if he  _ **_can_ ** _ be awakened - he will kill me. _

_ But  _ **_why_ ** _? _

_ He was laid here in Sun’s Heart purple. He holds what was once a soothing stone exactly like my own as a child. He wears exact copies of the summerstone snake jewels in my own treasury. But the folded clothes under his head - the spiral-woven blanket - green - Farore’s green - the weapons in the storage chambers, the triforce-shaped scar on the back of his left hand, the death mask he holds over his heart - he looks like the avatar of war itself. _

_ And he is beautiful. _

Ganondorf shook his head over the whole mad situation. He could no longer walk away from the puzzle of these chambers. The man sealed here was connected to the Divine Relic at some point - that much was certain. Whether he sought it or guarded it - or embodied it - Ganondorf could not guess.  _ Not without awakening him. _

“Godsdamnit,” grumbled Ganondorf, scrubbing a hand over his face. He pushed to his feet and returned to the opened casket. He’d moved the lid with its golden wolf statue to the floor, blocking the dead-end stairway under the seal of the sacred forest. He’d halfway expected a shrouded mummy, or perhaps an effigy.

He looked over the gold-wrapped edge of the blue glass, but the man remained exactly as before. Pale, angelic, lifeless. _ But not dead. Just - not alive. _

His right hand lay over the eyes of the painted mask, as if blinding it. His left hand lay over his heart, with the blurred white marble soothing stone under his fingers. Despite the traditional tone-on-tone weave, the traditional embroidery, the  _ color _ linking his mourning garments to the Geld’o - the cut of his tunic was Hylian - and it was more-or-less  _ modern _ in style. Which was impossible. The fresco, the  _ plaster _ concealing the ancient door was centuries - maybe millenia - old.

The only other clue to the man’s identity lay in the instrument tethered to his black leather belt by gilded minish chain: a fat-bellied flute carved of sacred bluestone. A golden ring had been forged around the base of the mouthpiece, inscribed with the sign of the triforce. A sacred instrument, and no doubt enchanted with unknown powers. Not the triforce itself - but connected to it.

Everything in this chamber connected to it.

Symbols and manifestations of each of the six prime elements.

And one man at the heart of them all.

Ganondorf touched a thread of spirit to the lifeless man once more - again, nothing. The mask held more spirit than  _ he _ did - and it was  _ furious _ .

“Naptime is over, little hero,” rumbled Ganondorf, reaching into the casket to touch the man’s perfect brow.

Nothing happened.

For three beats.

Blinding blue-white light from everywhere and nowhere burned through him, inside him, scoured his skin, his viscera, his bone, his spirit. Pain, intense, immediate, dizzying. His ears rang with a sound he couldn’t hear, his eyes were veiled by light he could no longer see. He stumbled over something, over nothing. He fell, and a new pain jolted up through him, reconstructing him of blood and bone and pain. The light shifted, shattering, breaking apart in dazzling blue-white glitter and wild branching fissures of flickering shadow.

A growl from a throat not his own.

A wordless cry of pain from a voice not his own.

A clatter, a thump.

Ganondorf blinked hard, but the fragmented light stole his sight still. “Hero-?”

A startled cry of anguish. A slipping, a scrambling, a thump of boots on stone, all muffled by the spells sealing this ancient chamber.

“Peace,” rumbled Ganondorf, extending a hand he couldn’t see to the chaotic soul beside him. “Peace. I am who summoned you.”

A snarl. A snap and gowl. A scrambling and slippery squak moving away from him as light and shadow began slowly to reassemble themselves. An incoherent howl.

Ganondorf sighed, rocking back on his heels and closing his mortal eyes. They were useless in the aftermath of the light flare anyway. He focussed through his spirit, yet still he struggled to make sense of anything before him. The gold-green chaos beside him could not decide its shape. It was trying to stand -  _ he _ was trying to stand, one bright limb scrambling for a handhold on the golden ornament and slick glass of the casket.

Inside the casket, a shard of incandescent fury.  _ The mask. He dropped the mask when his spirit entered the world.  _ “Peace, little hero. You are in pain. I am a healer. Be calm.”

The man spat, and his raspy voice fumbled after sounds that  _ might _ be the beginnings of words. His spirit writhed and shifted, and in the chaos, white eyes opened.

_ Maybe he is deaf. _ Ganondorf considered what little he knew of Hylian hand-signs. He’d never read of a formalized gestural language among them, and regretted never making time to search the Castle Archives for any better record of it. He settled his stance in square, concentrating on stillness, body and spirit. He lifted his hands, gesturing for  _ quiet _ , and also the signal for  _ clear _ in Hylian military sign. Then common gestures he’d seen in Hylian marketplaces, parents silencing children without words, leaders quieting their followers. Then the Gerudo sign for  _ quiet _ , and for  _ no threats _ .

The feral growls tapered down to warning huffs and grunts. The man’s movement became less frantic. He seemed to pull himself to his feet, leaning against his casket.

Ganondorf constructed a crude string of phrases, moving his hands in steady, slow gestures. It was impossible to tell for certain if the white eyes of the spirit tracked on his hands in the world of mortals or that of spirits. Nonetheless he repeated his assurance twice in each style:  _ I awaken you. Quiet. No danger. _

A sharp and gutteral sound of denial. The man tried again to speak, coughing and rasping his way through the syllables: “ _ Ganondorf _ .”

_ How do you know? _ “Yes, I awakened you.” Ganondorf agreed in voice and gesture.

The man growled and fidgeted.

Ganondorf opened his eyes. Dazzling splashes of red and blue still danced across his vision, and he had to squint to see the Hylian before him. “Peace.”

The man stared at him, his eyes dilated so wide they seemed black as night. He panted for breath, ragged and irregular. He bared perfect white teeth - snarled - and spat a golden rupee on the ground. He curled his lip in distaste, ducking his head like a beast readying himself to charge.

“No danger, no fight. Peace. I come for what you hold.”

The man followed his gesture, glancing at his left hand. He staggered back, a strangled scream pouring from his throat. He slapped and clawed at the back of his hand as if he would tear the mark from his flesh.

“Oh,” said Ganondorf in surprise, baffled by the sudden turn in the man’s terror. He pushed to his feet, trying to ignore the dizziness, and in two strides caught the man’s wrists. He’d already drawn blood - but it didn’t well up right. Sanguine pooled in the gouges but did not drip. As if it wasn’t moving enough  _ to _ drip. “Hush. It’s a scar of the thing, not the thing itself. I think.”

The man tipped back his fair head and howled again in anguish. He struggled to pull away, but without any focussed purpose. 

_ If he can’t understand my voice - but if I let him go he will injure himself again. Blessed Sands, nothing about this make sense-!  _ Ganondorf summoned power, twining it with a thread of his own spirit and casting it towards his panicked captive.

It was the wrong decision.

Flames clawed at the night sky. Red, yellow, white-hot. Thunder trembled his bones. A demon shaped of night and fury trampled him into the earth, and in the darkness - laughter. His, and not his. 

Sharp white teeth in a harsh olive-brown face, eyes of ill-omened roc’s gold. Running, burning, pain in every inch of his skin, struggling to draw even one more breath, take even one more step. 

A white horse racing past him, thunder and bells. The scream of a child. White silk in the wind. The night-black demon horse with forgecoal eyes bearing down on him again.

He falls.

Pain.

Laughter.

Not his - eerie, tormented spirit laughter. The bloodthirsty cruelty of shadow tricksters and vengeful forest sprites. He struggles to his feet. He is dizzy. The world is clawing black talons and lurid undead violets. Trees and thorns and winding chains tangling around him, caging him away from the sun.

He cannot run - his feet are mired in the earth. He cannot scream - his throat heaves but no wind passes over his tongue. He will claw the gag from his teeth - but he has no hands. He is made of twisted bark and pricking thorns, and all around him laughter.

He twists, he turns, he heaves his roots from the earth.

So much pain.

The night ripples.

A great red eye rises on a shimmering column of darkness and death.

Black fades away to blue white.

He sprints away - gathers himself to leap - but a tentacle of dark water seizes him. Smothers him. He struggles towards the surface. His hand is white. Bone-pale against the choking waters.

Hands rise beside him. 

Thin, dripping, howling dead flesh reaching vainly for aid.

_ Blood and greed - blood and greed _ , they scream.

_ Why didn’t you save  _ **_me_ ** _ -? _

He runs.

He runs forever.

Pounding feet, stinging air. 

Claws in his back, spears in his side. Howling, swirling poe chasing him to the ends of the earth. He cannot stop. He cannot rest. He must keep moving. There is no time. There is never time. If he does not run it will be too late. If he does not run it will be his fault.

Again.

He stumbles, electric agony crawling over his flesh. He can barely breathe.

Laughter.

His, and not his.

The pulsing wail of an overloaded spellglyph.

Crackle, sizzle, crack.

_ Ha _ , deep, resonant. His voice in the blinding gold, the whirling honeycomb mosaic of light, and yet  _ not _ his, heavy in his ears.

Hiss, snap.

_ Hyah _ , defiant, carrying. Not his voice, but his.

_ Ha. _ Hiss. 

_ Hyah. _ Snap.

_ Ha _ hiss

_ Hyah _ snap

_ Ha _ ss _ Hyah _ snCRACK. 

Thump.

Tut-tut-TUT-thud, run and leap. The thrill. The fear.

The  _ wet _ .

Lightning-flash receding as he sprints down the muddy road in the driving rain. Bells in his ears shrieking  _ hurry hurry hurry _ .

His sword heavy in his hand, red spreading everywhere.

Mud in his face, the white horse vanishing in the dark.

_ Hey-! _ A deep voice as thunderous as the night, as the vast iron-shod hooves of the night-black horse as tall as forever. His, and not his.

Bubbling rasping coughing. 

_ Blood and greed, blood and greed,  _ chant the ghosts.

_ You’re the bad guy _ , trills a sing-song childvoice.

_ Link _ , he pleads. Himself, and not himself. Vast bloody hand reaching. His eyes - his  _ eyes _ . No longer his. Demon-red and baleful yellow bleeding away as he coughs too much blood. Roc’s gold again, the focus gone, the rattling, whistling, bubbly wheeze of a last breath as his-hand-but-not-his-hand drags against his green tunic.

_ Well,  _ **_I_ ** _ say you need green more, to fight the bad magic.  _ Childlike, stubborn, deliberately accented Hylian.  _ You’re my friend. _

A scream. His, and not his. Long and anguished and reaching down into his bones. Pain like lightning that never stops coursing from one pole to another.

_ Would you defy destiny, hero? _ A strange voice, echoing as if a hundred recite it in a vaulting hall, ever so slightly out of sync.

_ You said you were my friend. _

_ You do bad things, Ganondorf. _

_ Give it to me,  _ thundered himself, rising on a coil of magic. Right fist raised. Glowing. Gathering power. His skin marked with luminescent magic  _ in the shape of the divine relic. _

_ Link, _ he pleaded, rasping, pained, mournful.

Laughter.

Cruel. Terrible. Familiar.

And  _ not his. _

He screamed. He screamed and screamed and clawed at his own skin, striving in vain to dig his way out of the nightmare.

_ It is not real, it is not real, I am real, I will wake up, _ he chanted over the voices of horrors. One after another. Tooth and claw and tortured howls.  _ Sa’ikhusa, Deasa ikhusa, va’hei surai rajena. By the eight sacred winds I command it -  _

In the darkness a shimmering cord. Red and gold and black shifting to white and blue and rust and back again. Pulsing with the blood in his ears as he ran and fought and fell and fought and screamed and fought.

_ Link - let go, _ he said, forging the words in his heart so each pulse of his spirit carried his song. _ It is a nightmare. A memory of things that have hurt you before, but nothing hurts you now, little hero. Let go. Let me help. I am the Great Ganondorf. I am stronger than anything you have ever faced before. _

_ No-! You lied, you lied - you do bad things, _ cried a desperate voice inside his self, but not his self. He looked up into shining golden eyes and a twisted smile distorting sharp features. Himself. A looming, menacing presence in black armor chased with gold.

_ I like your spirit, _ he rumbled at himself.  _ But that toy is too much for you. _

_ It is too much for you too-! It will destroy you again, _ cried the smaller voice.

_ This time it will be different, _ said the small voice, and the deep voice, and the child voice.  _ Trust me. Just once. Listen to me as I am and not as you have been told. _

_ I can’t. Bad things. _

Ganondorf returned to his body with the painful jolt of waking from a surprise nap of complete exhaustion. He hurt from crown to toe. He sat slumped against cold glass, alone, and the magelight at his side flickered dull amber. He rubbed at his aching brow. He fed another handful of magic to the spell, shifting the color to white-blue instead of purple. He couldn’t bear that lurid color, not yet. Not so soon after escaping the nightmares of a sealed ancient warrior.

Who cried out in pain from somewhere to his right, muffled by distance and by spell.

Ganondorf swore. He hauled himself to his feet. He was indeed, alone in the central chamber. The muffled voice to his right - the warrior - he seemed to be in the green stairwell.

_ That makes no sense whatever. _ Ganondorf frowned, circling around the cobalt glass casket. A glance assured him the spiritmask remained abandoned inside it. He considered moving the casket lid back its place.  _ The risk of upsetting the man further - no, we do not know enough of him or of it. _

“Nonono,” cried the man in strangely accented Hylian. Thumps suggested he threw himself at something above. Probably the wall. “Lemme out lemme - oh gods  _ please _ not again - those days are over, it is done, I did everything you asked-! Open-!”

“Hero,” rumbled Ganondorf softly, stepping over the corner of the casket lid. “The wall cannot obey you. It is only a wall. It is not magic.”

The man cried out in startled terror. “You - you stay back-!”

“Very well,” rumbled Ganondorf calmly.  _ Thank the Mother he can speak! _

“What-?”

Ganondorf frowned up at his shadowed figure. “You asked that I not approach you. Thus. I stand.”

“Just like that-?” The man stammered.

“Why are you afraid of me, little hero? I have offered you  _ life _ , not harm.”

“Everyone is afraid of you,” said the man, confused. “The Great Ganondorf, King of Evil. Demon thief.”

“When I need to be,” he said carefully. “By what name are you known-?”

“Why do you care?”

“I wish to know. Do I need a reason more than that, little hero?”

He seemed to consider it. “Let me go.”

Ganondorf lifted his chin. “Where do you see chains?”

“You turned the door into a wall.”

“That was a wall when I found you. Do you remember this place differently?”

The man descended one step. Hesitant. “I - I remember you. I remember hurt. You - touched my chest. It hurt.”

“At the end of a battle in a place with golden windows,” rumbled Ganondorf softly.

“Yes. No. Both,” said the man, descending another step. He shook his fair head, magelight reflecting dimly off his sweaty face. “I think it was later. I was by the fire. Thirsty. The tea was cold - I spilled it. You said it was ok. You touched my chest and it hurt  _ so much. _ ”

“A mortal wound,” he suggested softly.

“No. Yes. Not that kind. You said - something about patterns.” The man descended a third step. Twelve remaining. “The pattern was fraying. You said bad words. You called me - something. I forget. You told me to stay. It was stupid. I couldn’t move anyway.”

“Perhaps you remember someone else. These are not the actions of an evil king,” said Ganondorf speculatively.

“They’re not. But it was you. But not you. Your hair was - different. Long. striped. Why would you have striped hair?”

“Striped how-? Plaited with ribbons?”

“No,” said the man, descending two steps. Ten remaining. His eyes darted wildly, fresco to light, to his face, back to the fresco. A ring of blue circled his black pupils now. “Loose. Fluffy. Your hair was soft and curled wild when you left it loose. Hours to untangle but - but you liked it. I liked it. Touching your hair. But it was all wrong. Pale copper with little white stripes curling through. Your nose was crooked too. Wider. A handsome king.”

Ganondorf raised a brow. He never considered what he might look like as an old man. He never really expected to see the other side of solstice. The odds were simply too steep. _ War is death, and the only road to victory lies in choosing death. _ “And yet you run from me.”

“Yeah,” agreed the man. Nine steps. “Your hair is wrong. Short. You are - young. You are hunting the sacred realm. Oh gods -  _ why again-? _ ”

“To stop  _ them _ ,” he said simply. “Do you remember-?”

“Oh,” said the man. Seven steps. “But I fixed it. They can’t hurt anyone else. The sky took their ghosts. It was  _ over _ , Gan.  _ Why am I back-? _ ”

Ganondorf studied him. With every breath, his stance became more steady. More rooted. Graceful in the way of a predator. “How many times have we danced, you and I?”

The man shook his head.

“Do you know where you are? Where these rooms stand?”

Again, he shook his head no.

“We stand in a labyrinth half a mile beneath the gardens of the sanctuary your people call the Temple of Time,” said Ganondorf.

“Oh  _ no _ ,” wailed Link. Four steps. “It is the year it would begin, isn’t it? She is dreaming the storm isn’t she?”

“Zelda does not confide in me,” he said with a shrug.

“But the  _ wedding _ ,” he said, his voice cracking. Three steps. “The music was beautiful. You - had children together. Wild things, fearless - the castle full of color. You seemed happy - both of you, smiling. Oh  _ why _ did you embrace the shadows again? What  _ happened- _ ?”

“I don’t know,” confessed Ganondorf with a shrug. “That is a tomorrow unwoven, little hero. The more important question is  _ what will you weave now-? _ ”

The man swallowed hard. Looked at him. Blue eyes traveling over him slowly, as if he expected to find an answer written on his opponent’s regalia. He frowned, his troubled gaze rising again to meet his own. “I don’t know either. But we can’t let  _ them _ win.”


	3. Motion

The air felt better with light from mundane torches. Maybe the magelight was more efficient. Maybe Gan was right about flames stealing breath. But the sound of the little lightning coil riding above the man’s broad shoulders made his skin crawl. 

Link traced the texture of the green blanket in his lap, familiar and strange at once. Something about the interlocking light and dark spirals made his chest hurt. And yet - the soft woolen fabric against his skin felt like coming home. It smelled of clean herbs - and it smelled faintly of hot spices.

Like the man beside him.

Gan said he’d been searching the labyrinth for six days, even though except for his fluffy sideburns he was clean-shaven, and he still smelled of his favorite soaps and oils: bergamot and clove and spicebark and a touch of erisfruit. He ate his handful of field rations slowly. Delicately. Grinding each tiny piece for half a minute, as if the longer he took to eat it the more filling it would be. 

Nothing made any sense.

The tomb was beautiful. But he wasn’t dead. Gan sat on a crate of arrows, his back against the painted wall, young and strong and stubborn - and ignorant that he was surrounded by patterns of his own design. 

Not that Link could remember how he knew that. He _felt_ the magic and the bittersweet love in these rooms as a tangible weight. He looked at the intricacy, the sensitivity of the art, the careful, respectful labor of balancing and sealing the relics and powers in these five rooms. Away from the world, safe. Yet - _prepared_. Just in case.

As if Gan couldn’t let go of the idea that he would wake up, and climb the green stairs into sunlight once more. 

But the door in the green could not open because it didn’t exist. 

“How is the ranch?”

“Hn? Which one? Hyrule has ten thousand piddlyshit agrarian-”

“LonLon,” said Link with a sigh. “The only one that matters.”

“Rude,” said Gan, sipping from his water flask. Delicate. Sparing. No more than necessary to coat his tongue. He would hold it for a count of eight, or sometimes sixteen. Making it last. “Prosperous enough. The owner is lazy and disorderly, but his steward pays the taxes on time. Why?”

“How are the horses?”

Gan raised a brow, looking down his long nose at him as if he considered a puzzle. “Small, common, and inadequately trained. For now. I may send Asifad to stud there when Zharu is healed of the damn stone bruise.”

“Even the bay? The one with the white star?”

Gan frowned. “You mean the little chestnut bay _foal_?”

“Oh,” said Link, deeply disappointed. “The year it began. What about Malon-? You said _Zelda_ is older than before - is she-”

“Who? The weaver?”

Link shook his head, heart sinking.

“The kid-?”

Link sighed. “I will have to find a shrine then.”

Ganondorf folded the packet of rations closed. He’d barely eaten a rupee’s weight, and already he stopped. No matter how practiced his mask, he was deeply upset. Link ached to comfort him, but couldn’t imagine how to begin. “Explain.”

“Because Malon is small. It’s sad. She was nice, in the last time. Times. And strong. Sexy. Never mind - it’s fine. I have bombs, so I can probably cleanse the one by the gatehouse easy enough.”

“What does a royal shrine have to do with some common farmgirl?”

“Not a royal shrine. A _fairy_ shrine,” said Link, gnawing on another piece of ration-stick. “There’s not a soaring stone up there, but the temple is sorta close. It’ll work, once I cleanse it for her.”

Gan frowned deeper. “For?”

Link frowned back. “For summoning the fairy. Weren’t you listening? Malon is _small_ . And I’m - not, this time. Ruto is sharp, Cremina is far away, Anju of Kakariko is gay, Anju of Clocktown is engaged _and_ far away. So I will seek a fairy.”

“ _For-_?”

Link gestured helplessly. _How can the brilliant desert king not understand?_ “Fairies like kisses.”

Gan blinked at him. 

“It will keep things simple,” added Link, waving off his intense stare.

“Kisses,” he echoed at last.

“Well, _yeah_ . I don’t need healed _yet_ , but it’s good to awaken the Greater Fairies _before_ I need them. Then they’ll _remember_ me and heal me faster to get more kisses. Anyways, they’re soft and they taste nice.”

“ _Kisses_ ,” rumbled Gan, one heavy brow rising in disbelief. “These _farmgirls_ aren’t available so you - you will fuck a fairy. _That_ is your next logical step. A capricious immortal who may or may not manifest when you seek her. A heartless spirit. Have you no acquaintance with your _hand-_?”

Link’s cheeks burned. He’d never thought about it that way before. Or at least he couldn’t _remember_ thinking about it. Everything was disorderly, disconnected fragments, and strange gaping voids. He truly couldn’t remember how often he went back up the river of time in his old life, or if he ever bothered to count, but neither can he remember his memory being shattered before. Sitting beside his old enemy and weathering that golden stare made his insides squirm and cringe. As if his strange shards of soft and fond and bittersweet memories could not bear the man’s ill opinion. “Shut up. Hands can’t do _everything_.”

Gan gestured helplessly, empty palms cupped as if to catch answers from the air. 

“Just because _you’ve_ never kissed a fairy’s soft places,” grumbled Link, resettling the blanket. “If you weren’t too _damned_ proud to seek one, you might even like it.”

“I rather prefer my flesh intact,” he countered, but his deep voice cracked and strained over the words. 

Link made a rude noise. “They don’t bite _that_ hard most of the time, and anyways they heal it back after. It’s nothing. Not like with the Zora ladies. They can be fun, but they _only_ like sharp. Soft is good for resting.”

Ganondorf gestured, stuttering the beginning of words, as if he - _the brilliant warlord and sorcerer!_ \- couldn’t fathom it. When Link frowned at him, his half-words turned into a bark of laughter, turned into a deep chuckle, turned into a thunderous crescendo of hilarity. He threw his head back, giving himself to it. His _eyes_ even _watered_. 

Link’s ears burned with mortification to be the butt of some _joke_ to him - but at the same time, warmth kindled in his core to hear it. Even if it was at his expense, for a moment, Ganondorf the Great, the evil bandit king himself, was free from pain.

“That’s all I remember. At least for now, that I can fit into words. Aside from feelings that - I don’t know. There’s no meaning. Just the echo of feeling it. There’s other things that don’t fit, but maybe they were dreams.” Link yawned. It felt strange, his ears popping and his throat too dry, but he didn’t want to ask for more water when Gan was rationing his own so tightly. 

He _did_ let his weight sag against Gan’s knee, savoring the little bit of warmth that snuck through his armor. His tiredness embarrassed him - by Gan’s estimate, he’d only been awake a handful of hours. Yet he wanted to crawl into a warm nest and burrow into softness. The thought carried the impression of rhythm, deep and steady, like a heartbeat. 

Link suspected prodding that thought-image would upset him. Again. Much of what he remembered bothered him deeply, whether soft or violent. There was more of the latter than the former. A _lot_ more.

Gan said the spirits of the dead who could still feel things had no subtlety or nuance in feeling them. It was everything or nothing, he said. Some of that might linger in him for a long time. Or maybe forever. Despite his knowledge of dark magic and necromancy, Gan didn’t seem to know very much about _him_. Not his name, not the legend that became his destiny, not the function of the flute, nothing. He seemed confused when he spoke of the river, and fragments of the same moment with a dozen different endings.

“You will remember more,” rumbled Gan into the silence. “There is perhaps an hour left in the torch oil, unless the stands hold a second reservoir.”

“How do you know?”

“Naptha burns at the same rate everywhere and the visible well is the size of my fist,” he said, lacing his fingers together over his belt.

“I mean about remembering,” said Link, pressing against his leg and tipping his head back to study the man. Something about being close to him felt right and good and safe in a way he could neither describe or explain.

“Hn,” said Gan, resting his head against the wall, his gaze wandering over the frescoes again. “The mind is just - _like that_ . When you are injured or in danger, the memory will be carved into pieces. The parts that are too terrible to relive, those will be lost. The parts that are terrible, but not deadly, those will rest in the shadows until something resonates and awakens it again. The parts that _led_ to the suffering - those remain vivid as dawn. Sometimes in pieces, but the farther you are from it, the stronger the weave. They become lessons that keep you alive. Later injuries or intoxication might blur them, but nonetheless, they are part of you forever. In the course of a few hours you have regained grace and language, moved from the confusion of complete unknown to being able to divide _now_ from _then_. The rest will come in time.”

Link sighed. “Just because you’re being nice-ish and helping doesn’t mean I can give you the thing you want.”

“I know,” rumbled Ganondorf without looking down at him. “We are fated enemies, you and I, but that’s not enough reason to expend the effort of killing you. I have _many_ enemies. If you cannot be my ally, I do not _care_ , so long as you stay out of my way.”

“I think you do care,” said Link cautiously. “I have too many shards of you being - not this. There must be another way.”

“Perhaps. But none of those are going to be it, or why would the gods have sent you back to fight again?”

“I don’t know,” confessed Link with a sigh. “Maybe the gods _didn’t_ send me. Maybe it’s a mistake. Maybe the spell you cast-”

“I didn’t cast anything. Or - nothing but light,” cut in Gan. “And a little levitation to move that godsawful heavy lid. You body was already stirring - your breath fogging the glass. I merely opened my spirit to sensing yours.”

“Why would that wake me up though?”

Gan shrugged. “You said you were sent to kill me many times. Perhaps my proximity roused you as blood spilled near a sleeping hound.”

Link’s chest tightened at the thought. He could barely draw breath. “No. Not again. Don’t make me do it.”

Gan said nothing.

“You don’t understand. _There is no other door._ It is under four keys. Three jewels and the sword. To keep it safe. To keep the _world_ safe. It is too dangerous - even a small wickedness touching it will destroy everything.”

“Hn,” said Gan, his lip curling in a bitter grin.

“I don’t think I can even _go_ back to the forest. Too many shards of _bad things_.”

“True. Farore’s fae children cannot abide a divided or tarnished heart,” Gan agreed.

“I don’t want to touch the sword,” confessed Link. “If you go through the door - I think we _have_ to fight. The triforce breaking - that cannot be good.”

“Likely not,” agreed Gan equitably. Like it was nothing to speak of his probable damnation. “Unfortunately for you, evil is everywhere and in every _thing_ , little hero. Closing _one_ door to _one_ manifestation will not make the world any more just.”

“No - but it’s a beginning. _If_ we fight _together_ ,” began Link, sifting through his memories for any reflection of that path. “Maybe then it will _stay_ fixed.”

“The old king with white in his hair did not fight beside you?”

“I - don’t know. I don’t remember. There is no shard with you wearing that face _and_ holding weapons. At least not right now.”

“Then I have found you too late,” rumbled Gan to the star-painted ceiling.

“No - you _must not_ give in to the shadows! I am awake _now_. There must be something - we can run, Gan. We can just leave all of this before it can ever happen,” pleaded Link, rising up on his knees, clutching the blanket with one hand and seeking Gan’s with the other.

Gan looked down at him, expression closed and unreadable. “And did that work _before_ , little hero? That metal house at the edge of the world - did that _work_ ? Did running away from destiny like a fucking coward _end well-?_ ”

Link shivered. He fought to make his tongue shape the confession. “I don’t think so.”

“Hn,” said Ganondorf, unlacing his fingers and bracing to stand. “Let’s see if you remember how to fight.”

Even with the lid returned to the casket, the tomb was too small for a comfortable spar. Link suggested moving to the labyrinth above, but Gan shrugged off the idea and pressed his advance again. Pattern after pattern they danced around the casket, halfway up the stairs, into the doorway of the storage chambers. Gan tested him with longswords and short, daggers and spears, with shield and with claymore.

It felt good.

Except for the part where every five or ten minutes he would manage to get past Gan’s guard and not manage to pull the blow in time. Gan said it was fine, and even opened one of the pots from the green stairway to retrieve vials of red healing jelly for both of them. He tried to hide how many he used, but Link saw anyway. He acted indifferent to the very real risk of death, cavalier and flippant. Yet something in his golden eyes seemed - hungry.

They rested at the hour, sitting together on the stairs to watch the torches burn out. Gan offered his flask again, but no conversation. 

Link couldn’t bear the silence and the dark together. “I think we should stop. You’re stronger, and have magic I don’t, but I’m faster.”

“A bee may sting a hundred times, and  _ eventually _ win. But a bear need only hit once,” said Gan dryly.

“Dismiss my strength at your peril, desert king. I will  _ always _ win  _ any _ challenge you set for me. What more is there to prove?”

“Hn,” said Gan, then nothing else.

Link sighed, struggling to remember the desert language. It tangled on his tongue, but something pressed on his heart and whispered that maybe, just  _ maybe _ he would hear the warning better in his mother tongue. “Rajo. I’m not just  _ good _ at fighting, ok? But if this is the year it began, I can’t defeat Twinrova yet.”

Gan grunted again, rumbling in the darkness. “How do you know that name?” 

“I don’t understand magic, and I don’t understand  _ how _ the timeriver works, but the things I remember - it wasn’t one life. It was  _ many _ . I was trying to fix it - the end was  _ wrong _ . So I went back. Sitting in the dark here - I remember - it was dark then, and it hurt, and - the stranger healed me. Helped me. Taught me to speak. Traded stories and sweets. We were friends. I didn’t know they would become  _ you _ .”

“War makes monsters of us all,” rumbled Gan. Calm. Rational. And yet - offering a discreet sympathy for a horror he could not possibly understand, towards a man who was charged by the gods themselves to kill him.

“No.  _ Monsters make wars _ . Strike one down and three more rise. Until you find the root, there’s no  _ point _ . But I can’t cross the wall of black wind in the sand sea to reach the temple until seven years tomorrow.”

“Hn. You can if you’re me,” said Gan. A coil of light spun out from his fingertips, winding around the central chamber one, twice, thrice.

“No - you  _ can’t _ get that close to the Spirit Gate. It would be a disaster,” cried Link, grabbing his free hand.

Gan snorted and pulled him to his feet as he stood. “I  _ can _ , I just won’t  _ leave _ . And I can’t touch them directly - they made sure of that years ago. But you, little hero - he can’t use  _ you _ .”

“You’re not listening - I can’t get past their wall. Something  _ old _ and big and impossible unravels everything, no matter which face I wear.”

“But have you worn  _ mine- _ ?” Gan smiled down at him. It was not a nice smile. 

Link frowned up at him. “It won’t matter.  _ Nothing _ is strong enough to push through their wall until their contract with the Destroyer is finished.”

“It’s not about strength,” said Gan, pausing beside the gilt and cobalt glass casket. “I cross the black wind every winter. They are expecting me.”

“I  _ won’t _ make you into a mask,” snapped Link.

Gan tipped his head, studying him with one eye, hawklike.

Link reclaimed his hand to fold his arms over his chest in defiance. “Don’t push me.”

“Hn,” said Gan after a moment. He pushed the lid of the casket askew. “Show me your true face, hero.”

Link frowned.

Gan gestured to the fierce mask still laying on the thin felt cushion inside.

Link shuddered. “It won’t help. I’ve tried that.”

“Humor me,” said Gan with a bitter grin. The sizzling golden lightning wreathing the room made his eyes seem to glow.

It hurt.

Gan studied every part of the shining white regalia. He paced a tight circle, asking few questions, all of them sharp clarifications. The terrible sword. The markings on the chainmail. The rune on his brow. He paused when they stood face-to-face-again. It was strange to look down at him, even a little.

“Trust me,” said Gan. He held his right hand out to the side, and the wicked trishul appeared in it. He held out his left for the spiral sword. 

Link swallowed his fear and did as he asked. As their hands touched he felt lightning. His white gloves turned black. His silver armor turned black with accents of rust and umber and topaz. Even his boots turned black. 

“Hn,” said Gan, gesturing to the pile of bones he’d dragged down from the labyrinth. A tempest spun up from it, pulverizing the dry white bones to dust, and reforming them in the shape of a skull-helm with oryx horns. “Try to avoid  _ talking _ .”


	4. Flight - 1 of 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ETA: From this point forward, I restructured the chapters just a little, because the wordcount got out of hand. This is still a hard 8 sections, but I think it will be easier to read in smaller chunks. 
> 
> Thanks for bearing with me.

A tempest gathered over Castletown, a low-hanging green-gray threat. Ganondorf stood in the monastery gardens for a few minutes longer than he planned, persuading the storm to wait. It cost power he could ill afford, but look-away spells were far less effective when driving rain showed a _hole_ where the hidden walked. 

Link waited for him in the shadow of the cyprus trees screening the opening to the labyrinth below. He fidgeted with the trishul, but otherwise his aspect was perfect. The death mask gave him the proper height, and the white glow of his mask-changed eyes lent a forbidding luminescence to the crimson glass lenses embedded in the skull helm. The illusion of royal regalia was simple enough, aided that much further by giving the man his red cloak. A strand of topaz to carry and empower the spell matrix at distance would help maintain the illusion until the planned rendezvous in the Appelan district.

The problem wasn’t really the casting of it.

The _problem_ was maintaining it _and_ a double-layered look-away matrix for almost sixty days while they raced halfway across the world on a million-to-one chance of defying divine law. A work that complex would test his strength and subtlety at high summer, in the desert, immediately after a festival, well-rested, with all his tools and reservoirs close at hand. 

To weave a masterwork of deception in winter, in Hyrule, tired, hungry, immediately after casting dozens of lesser spells, _and_ forging an unintentional spirit-road within the last twenty-four hours was _insane_.

Granted, he no longer had a pair of shadowbugs feeding on his magic either, but it would be days - maybe weeks - before he could repair the damage they’d done to his channels. 

_No wonder I’m exhausted. I surely picked them up in that godsforsaken labyrinth somewhere. I will have no more than an hour to find a source of raw energy that won’t undermine my work. Sooner is better._

Ganondorf set the last glyph in place, fusing it with the lumen-stone at the center of the topaz strand. Any spell looking for him - even one woven by the Great Rova themselves - would be drawn first to the etheric cacophony bound to those stones. He didn’t bother giving it any specific thoughts. He merely fed it rage and fear and pain, need and hunger and greed. Link would look like him, move like him, feel like him. In better circumstances, Ganondorf could alter his voice also - but he wouldn’t need _that_ until they reached the Gate.

“It is time,” said Ganondorf, beckoning the man closer.

Link grunted, stepping into the wan light. He tucked the trishul behind his back into its new carrying sheath, fumbling a little with the center strap. He would get used to it in a day or so. He held out his hand for the stones.

“Make sure it touches your skin _always_.”

Link nodded, tugging loose the high collar of his endarkened arming suit. 

Ganondorf paced around the edge of the enchantment, examining it from all sides. As his own work, he could see the lacework shimmer of the illusion, the red pulse of captured emotion. He spiraled closer, until the look-away spell on himself started to disrupt the image of his enigmatic new ally. “You know where the stables are-? Good. Take Zharu - she will have a bandage on the right forehoof. Your weight won’t be anything to her - but stay on good roads and _don’t_ push her past a fast trot.”

“ **And if you are not at the Appelan crossroads in three days-?** ”

Ganondorf suppressed a shiver at the terrible voice of a dead war god. In a way, he was glad the spiral sword had rejected his hand, vanishing to gods only knew where rather than tolerate anyone _not_ hosting the sealed spirit. He shrugged. “If the spell drops, you have a new horse.”

Under the mask and illusion and helm, it was impossible to say if his expression shifted at all. Which was fine. The man snarled like a beast.

“Make sure you’re seen. If you cross any of the Legion, salute, and _keep going_ , understand? Feel free to ignore the Hylian idiots. Any provisions you need, _take_ , but don’t tarry. The spell works best in motion.”

“ **Be careful, Rajo.** ”

Ganondorf snorted, dismissing him with a gesture. He stalked toward the castle bailey without once looking back. _In a choice between life and death - to even consider that you may fail is to invite defeat. Choose death. Only then will you know victory._

Ganondorf stepped into the gatehouse primarily to climb to the walk above without turning his back on the central towers. Whether Impa had truthsight or not didn’t really matter - but if Zelda noticed him, she would happily unravel the look-away spell just to annoy him. Whatever wisdom she inherited with her blood and her title was clouded by prejudice and orthodoxy - for now. Link’s prophecy of a state marriage seemed impossible. _If she would but look beyond her tower-_

Ganondorf shook off the thought as he reached the walk. Fortune looked poorly on the Earl of Necluda when he chose the ground for his next assignation. His soul was distasteful, his sins prodigious. Ganondorf pulled him off whatever maid he’d lured this time and dragged him out of the tower. There was no longer any reason to tolerate him. The man squealed in fear and wasted his energy trying to cover his shame. He begged the ‘shadow lord’ to spare him as Ganondorf pressed him against the parapet and carved the barbed siphon-glyph into the man’s bare asscheek. A Word, and the hook set in the man’s spirit, ensnaring the latent magic in the man’s pain and fear. He kicked Necluda over the ledge, harvesting more as he fell through a conveniently thorny spicebean tree to meet his gods on the bluestone walkway beneath.

Ganondorf walked away, scraping the man’s slimy memories from his soul.

The gods did not see fit to send Colton Horwell across his path. A couple of embezzling servants would awaken in a linen closet with the mother of all headaches in half a day. They might or might not remember how they ended up in said closet. Elapidan (Lake Country Duke and cruel master of a thousand tenant farms) he marked twice, bound, and strung upside down from a gilded fountain. If he tried to wriggle free, he would likely drown. His cowardice filled the glyph reservoir before Ganondorf even reached the Great Hall. He hauled the power up the thin tether linking the spell to himself, and left the barbs to fill again if they could.

Sebastian Johannes Nohansen, known to the world by his twin’s name, sat in his study.

Smoking.

Ganondorf let the rich rum-cured Lurelin sotweed coil around him. He rolled the knife in his hand and waited for Sebastian to notice. As rain would reveal the form under a spell-cloak, so would incense and other heavy vapors. He would rather _not_ ruin the books and papers if he could avoid it, but they wouldn’t matter until later in any case. Stained documents would be a problem for some scholar in his court most likely, and a few gifts of fine ink and ricepaper and ebony-handled sable brushes would take care of that.

Sebastian did not scream, which was disappointing.

He set the pipe down. “Dragmire.”

“I am not a patient man,” purred Ganondorf. “You have one and only one opportunity to preserve the peace treaty. Open the sacred door in the Temple of Time.”

Sebastian ground his teeth. “Zelda has the key.”

Ganondorf seized a fistful of velvet and lace, pulling the man out of his chair and onto the desk. “Wrong answer.”

It was messy.

Sebastian might have been an interesting opponent when he was a young man, some twenty-five years ago, but he’d grown complacent in his stolen title and decadent luxuries and petty court intrigues. Despite his incompetence and cowardice, he was still greedy as a rabid ringtail and ruthless as a molgera. He did not seem to understand his desires forged a hundred thousand points of leverage into his spirit. A tiny pressure, and his whole essence pivoted. Every shift, every prick of panic, every thread of pain generated more power. Ganondorf worked his way methodically through flesh and spirit to seize every crumb available.

It might be enough.

For a fortnight.

When his crown and jewels could hold no more, he dragged Sebastian to the window and forced him to look out on the kingdom he’d despoiled for a decade and a half. Ganondorf whispered lies in his ear, torments he would never bother expending the energy to engage - but Sebastian didn’t know that. The important thing was leading him to think about the _reasons_ , the _causes_ , the _sins_ for which Ganondorf _could_ punish him. 

Then Ganondorf told him a story. A failed, illegal trade mission sixteen years ago. A fire at a provincial manor. He’d hidden in a ventilation shaft above the council of elders to listen to the graphic reports of the survivors. One of the archers had broken through the knot of hired thugs and reached the main house. The cellar had been chained shut with the Nohallen family inside. 

Hyrule blamed Gerudo raiders. As she was meant to. 

Ganondorf snuck into the healer’s rooms afterwards to steal the horrid memory from the woman, but she died two days later anyway. He stole memories from all of them, sealing them all in the bloodstone pommel of his honor knife.

Which slipped so perfectly between third and fourth rib.

_Now_ Sebastian tried to scream, when it was far too late. He went to the gods with the memory of the massacre filling his spirit from almost a dozen different sources. 

A woman screamed behind him.

Ganondorf yanked the knife free and turned, letting the corpse fall as it would.

Zelda stood just inside the study door, white as her gown, frozen with shock at the grisly spectacle. Her eyes darted everywhere, her spirit trembling with indecision.

Ganondorf flipped the knife around, offering it to her as he stalked toward the door. “Your mother. Your father. Your vaba’s beloveds and her family and her servants. They are avenged.”

Zelda stared up at him, her blue eyes wide with fear. She stammered and squeaked but formed no actual words. She did not accept the knife.

Ganondorf seized her hand and forced her to take it anyway. “You’re welcome, my Queen.”

Zelda squeaked a single word: “ _Monster._ ”

“Hn,” said Ganondorf, pushing past her into the hall.

_Ten rupee says the brat will find her wits before I reach the stables._

No one took the wager.

But no one noticed bloody bootprints making their way across the throne room either.

The rain broke free of his persuasion an hour’s hard ride outside of Castletown. He considered and discarded the idea of pulling off the road to steal a hot meal from the first village he could find. The death bells were already tolling, their mournful tones carried from one temple to the next, passing word faster than the wind. 

He wondered if Appelan was far enough to prevent the common folk from making the immediate connection between the Demon Thief and the bells. He wondered how much time the look-away matrix would buy on that front. He wondered if he’d stolen enough grain to feed both Zharu and Asifad until Kolomo. 

Neither horse nor rider waited for him at the Appelan crossroads. 

Ganondorf swore a blistering oath and pivoted west.

Ten minutes later, a shadow detached from the trees and sent Asifad into a plunging, rearing fit. It was a minor miracle he kept his seat. The moment Asifad agreed to keep at least three hooves down, Ganondorf summoned his sword and pulled Asifad through a tight pivot, seeking the threat. He swore again to complete the turn and find _him_ standing in the road, arms crossed over his chest, chin lifted in clear challenge. 

“Were my instructions _unclear-_? Out of my way,” snapped Ganondorf. 

Link did not move.

“Where is my horse?”

Link jerked his chin toward the trees. “ **You are bloody.** ”

“It’s not mine,” said Ganondorf. “Come on, we need to keep moving.”

“ **You have neither eaten nor slept since Castletown. Two days ago.** ”

“How do you know that, little hero?”

“ **I know** **_you_ ** **, and I know how fast your monster of a horse is.** ”

“So what if I haven’t? I’m not beholden to you or anyone,” snapped Ganondorf. 

“ **A warrior’s body is one pillar of their strength. As a garden in the desert must be brought shade and water and food, so a warrior must tend their strength. You can only harvest from it what you have nurtured**.”

“Fuck you,” grumbled Ganondorf. _How do you know that proverb-?_

“ **Come. I remembered how to make timebubbles,** ” said Link, jerking his chin toward the trees.

“A _what-_?”

“ **You can come willingly and help make the static one, or I can make the one that sticks to me alone and pour sleepleaf down your throat while you are frozen. Choose or I choose for you.** ”

“You’re an arrogant twit, trying to bully the king of the goddamned world,” grumbled Ganondorf. 

“ **Hn** ,” said Link. “ **You have three seconds, desert king. Dismiss my strength at your peril.** ”


	5. Flight - 2 of 3

Link soon proved to be a skilled cook by trail standards, and despite his petty rebellion outside of Appelan, a useful and considerate traveling companion. He asked before adjusting course, or hunting, or pausing for rest, whether by word or hand signal. He asked preferences before tossing food into the cooking pot. He offered his magic every afternoon and every night - but he didn’t just do it without warning, and he did abide the answer ‘not here’ or ‘not now’. Even when he decided Ganondorf had put off rest too long, he only forced the issue if he wouldn’t agree to camp in mundane time either. 

He did follow through on his threat the first night, using his strange magic to tend the horses and set camp in the blink of an eye. Link bound Ganondorf with the wicked claw-chains in another blink, but dragged him out of the road and into shelter in something like normal time, if _normal_ meant lightning frozen above them mid-strike. 

He’d offered the choice of food first or sleep first. When Ganondorf cursed him instead, Link whisked him by magic under a crude branch-and-canvas shelter to drop and pin him prone on piled bedding stolen from somewhere or other. Despite the indignity of his position, the man’s weight at the small of his back was weirdly comforting, warming tired muscles and encouraging his spine to straighten properly. 

After he ran out of motivation to curse, _and_ after ten minutes of silence, Link asked if removing the mask would cause trouble with the illusion. Ganondorf confessed he didn’t know.

“I’ve never cast anything like it. Constructs and independent illusions, yes, but never layered over a foreign enchantment on a living creature.”

“ **Does it cost more energy to weave or hold?** ”

“Hard to compare,” said Ganondorf honestly.

“ **Then I will keep it,** ” said Link, settling his weight a little lower and incidentally popping loose another knot of tension around his tailbone. “ **Hostile ground is not a place for theories. Sleep if you can - either way you are not getting out of bed for at least four body-hours.** ”

Ganondorf suppressed a shudder at the suggestion, and changed the subject. “Does the mask continue to hurt once the Shaping spell stabilizes?”

He seemed to consider the question for a while in the eerie silence of a frozen world, as if he somehow wasn’t sure of the answer. Ganondorf thought about trying to turn his head to look away from the unsettlingly motionless flames of the campfire. He didn’t want to reveal his discomfort with the timespell.

“ **This body is stronger, and feels things differently or not at all** ,” said Link at last. “ **Do not make it angry.** ”

“Hn,” said Ganondorf.

“ **_More_ ** **angry, anyway,** ” conceded Link.

“Fine. We camp until dawn. Now let me go.”

“ **Dawn is too soon.** ”

“Second hour of dawn then.”

“ **It is better to rest inside the timesong. Safer.** ” 

“Ok-”

“ **It only changes time for me unless we are touching** ,” interrupted Link. “ **The soaring will not carry you at all - only me and Zelda, because she is bonded with Gaebora also. Until you will help build static bubbles, this is what we have. Timesong, lesser healsong, stormsong, keysong.** ”

“Why do you need _my_ help to cast it? I’ve never seen or studied _any_ spell array that would achieve this,” grumbled Ganondorf, more than a little annoyed to encounter a magic that didn’t answer his will.

Link grunted, shifting his weight as if - nervous, somehow. “ **I remembered - doing it before. By accident. It was not good. In this life you know. But I cannot play the song and hit the timestone at the same time.** ”

“You know the entire concept breaks about seven different laws of magic, right?”

“ **Oh** ,” said Link, relaxing his weight. “ **Since when do you care about breaking laws, demon thief?** ”

“Fuck you. Now get off me. I need a drink. Then give me the rock or whatever.”

“ **I cannot. Promise you will not be stubborn.** **_Then_ ** **I will take the chains off and make ready.** ”

Ganondorf agreed. 

Link honored his promise. Ganondorf rolled his aching shoulders as the night sounds resumed, and the campfire crackled. Link set the trishul on the ground beside the shelter, and started unbuckling his baldric and belt.

“Hn. _Magic stone_ ,” sneered Ganondorf, massaging his wrists. “You could have just _said_ you wanted payment for the work.”

Link tipped his head in query. He hadn’t removed the helm, so the oryx horns scraped the underside of the canvas when he did it. “ **I do not need rupee**.”

“Obviously.”

Link shook his head and struggled to unlace a tunic bespelled to look like his cuirass.

“Don’t bother. Just get your thorn out and let’s get on with it,” grumbled Ganondorf. 

Link froze. “ **What-?** ”

Ganondorf snorted in disgust. “Lotus or butterfly? Or do I need to summon salve? Either way I’m not kneeling so don’t ask.”

“ **I - you think I-** ”

“There is _literally_ no point being coy about it, heroboy.”

“ **It is- not like that. I did not want to get the shirt messy**.”

Ganondorf uttered a rude noise. “That clumsy are you-?”

Link growled. He pulled a long, thin knife from the top of his boot and tossed it onto the piled blankets. He pulled the horned skull-helm off, but left his mask in place as he hauled his shirt and tunic and scalemail off as one piece. It was strange to look at shining white eyes in his own image, with primal carmine and ancient woad body markings showing through the enchantment. The man gestured angrily to his bare middle. His detached expression remained unchanged. 

Ganondorf frowned at the tidy unhealed incision rising from his left hip with its perfect surgeon’s stitches. It didn’t look inflamed, and it neither bled nor scabbed - though some of it might be obscured by the illusion. “You didn’t mention training in the healer’s arts. Impressively even stitches for self-”

“ **I neither cut nor stitched. It was here when I awakened. The stone is inside. Strike after the sixth note.** ”

Ganondorf frowned. “What.”

“ **Are you helping or not? Then grab the knife and let us get on with it.** ”

On the fourth night, outside of Kolomo, Ganondorf learned the wound and stone belonged to the man and not the form in the mask. 

He also learned Link _didn’t_ scream when his flesh returned to a mortal Hylian shape. And they both learned the enchanted spirit housed in the mask would whisk away any gear he took off while he was Changed. Link grumbled all evening about ending up shirtless and bootless. 

_I suppose we should be glad it didn’t steal the damn trishul. But will it return the rest when he puts it back on?_

His flesh still showed no sign of healing. It didn’t putrefy either. Without the mask-spirit overshadowing him, Ganondorf could see clearly the void in his spirit where someone embedded the bluestone shard inside his body. Link swore he couldn’t remember it happening.

The perfect incision along the rising grain of the external obliques, neatly avoiding any disruption of the abdominal sheath unsettled him. He suspected a second incision inside, following the counter tension of the internal obliques, as the absence of telltale bulk from the stone - and the necessary depth to strike it - suggested it rested somewhere on or under the transverse muscles. Not that he had any idea how big it was. The unknown surgeon might well have chosen to overcut on the outer layers to give themselves room to maneuver the shard into position inside him.

_But why-? You clearly didn’t care about scarring - though he has no other obvious ones. Hell of a warrior that escapes a lifetime of fighting unmarked._

_Unless the gods erased those when they resurrected him._

_Then why did this one remain-?_

“Did anyone know about the stone in your last life?”

Link shook his head. “Don’t remember. Didn’t have the scar though.”

“Wonder if someone was hiding it,” mused Ganondorf, leaning back against a friendly log to enjoy his tea. Brambleberry leaf and a pinch of roasted black, liberated along with a whole string of smoked sausage from the last manor. “Maybe after you died. Unthinkable to desecrate a legendary hero’s grave and all.”

“You did.”

“Demon King,” countered Ganondorf, weighing the virtues of tipping a measure of spirits into it to warm him. The season was starting to turn bitter, and his armor wasn’t designed for the kind of wet cold that permeated Hyrule. Especially without cloak or mantle over top.

“You don’t have to be,” said Link softly, wrapping Ganonodrf’s red and gold cloak tighter around his bare shoulders. 

Ganondorf sipped his tea. “I could summon you something from my treasury.”

“You need your magic in case the illusion didn’t stick to the god,” countered Link, setting his jaw.

 _That’s the first time he’s admitted he knows what the spirit in the mask_ **_is_ ** _. But is he - a mortal manifestation created when the god was sealed? Or a demigod in his own right?_ “Don’t worry about that.”

“I’ll worry as I damn well please. I’m not beholden to you or anyone,” returned Link with a saucy toss of his head.

“Hn,” said Ganondorf, setting aside his half-empty cup, wedged safely against the log. “If I run low on magic, the garrison commander here is a eugenicist, and a libertine.”

Link frowned in confusion. “A _what_?”

Ganondorf raised a brow, but he was apparently genuine. “Don't worry about it, kid.”

“ _Kid?_ ” Link squeaked, his pale skin flushing hot and bright. “I’m _not_ a _kid_.”

“You’re about the size of one,” teased Ganondorf with a lopsided grin.

“Ohhh _fuck_ you,” snarled Link. “Take it back.”

“Mmmmno.”

Link rocked up onto his knees and scowled fiercely. “Take it _back_ and _don’t_ call me that again. Ever.”

“Sure thing, _kid_.” Ganondorf teased, diverted by his indignant fury.

Link growled like a beast. “I am a _man_ and a _warrior_. Take it back.”

“Says you and whose army?” Ganondorf returned with a grin.

“I _am_ an army,” snarled Link - throwing off the cloak - and _pouncing_.

Ganondorf was ready for it, and rolled with the impact to toss him off again.

Link tumbled easily and was back on his feet a moment later.

Ganondorf caught and flipped him the second time.

Link scrambled up and charged again.

And again.

Leap turned into grapple turned into rolling across the cold grass.

Fighting him off would be easier if it wasn’t so _funny_. Ganondorf couldn’t stop laughing. A dozen deadly weapons, and the man leapt at him barehanded over the most idle taunt. Small and fierce and foolish and adorable in his aggrieved pride.

Ganondorf couldn’t remember the last time he’d had time for any challenge or spar without some deeper purpose. Without needing to perform.

It was fun.

Ganondorf realized in the middle of a bear-hug fall that it was _really_ fun.

He leveraged his sheer size and weight to catch the man in a simple mount pin. Not ideal, but a fast and easy road to buy a moment to breathe - and think. 

Link panted and growled - and interrupted his attempt to meditate on the new thought with try to buck him off. 

It helped the _wrong thing_.

“Oh little hero, you’re delicious, you know that?”

“You haven’t won yet,” snarled Link.

“Haven’t I?” Ganondorf laughed, snapping his teeth near the man’s elegant long ear.

Link growled at him.

Ganondorf laughed and rolled away.

Link immediately pressed his apparent advantage.

Ganndorf caught him again, winding him in a tight cradle pin - easier than normal given his slight stature. Gratifying though, dragging the furious little Hylian warrior onto his chest and watching him flail about in vain, seeking leverage. “Open your eyes, little hero, and _look_ how far you’ve fallen. I knew _I_ was enjoying myself but I see we are of like mind, you and I.”

Link paused in his struggles.

Ganondorf laughed. He curled forward and dragged the man close enough to purr in his ear. “Beg for mercy, little hero. Beg me to release you. Let’s hear that sweet voice _really_ sing tonight, hn?”

“Gan - what are you - I don’t-”

“You want to play coy-?” Ganondorf purred, shifting his grasp to tease the man with a rolling pressure against the side of his throbbing, neglected cock. “We can work with coy.”

“Oh,” squeaked Link.

“You like that-? _Beg for more,_ ” purred Ganondorf, nuzzling his face into Link’s silky golden hair. _It is nice having him back in this shape. I almost forgot how beautiful he was._

“Oh Gan I didn’t mean - oh don’t, you’re making it worse! Lemme go,” cried Link, a wave of heat flaring through his skin.

“Worse, hn? You want to know worse? Let that pretty hand wander again,” rumbled Ganondorf, relaxing his hold. “Or did you think that was the _codpiece-_?”

Link squeaked and whimpered. He seemed to have forgotten the wrestling match entirely.

“Beg for me, little hero.”

“Gan, _please_.” Link whispered.

“Hn,” said Ganondorf, opening his arms.

Link tumbled off his chest to crouch on his hands and knees beside him. He panted heavily, but said nothing.

Ganondorf shrugged off his indecision and stroked his own hand over the inconvenient ache. Not enough of the pressure translated through the leather, but it was better than nothing. He stared up at the frozen stars and tried not to wonder what Link would choose. He’d never mentioned any interest in men, although the misunderstanding on the first night surely hadn’t encouraged him. He wasn’t an innocent though, given his comfort with the idea of fucking capricious fairies for their healing magic.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” whispered Link at last.

“Pity,” said Ganondorf with a shrug. “What color of kurta would you like?”

“What-?”

“For tonight, so you don’t freeze that pale ass off in your sleep. And for tomorrow, if the mask-god doesn’t give your shirt and armor back in the morning.”

Link said nothing for a long measure. 

Ganondorf gave up on soothing the ache anytime soon and folded his hands behind his head, yawning.

“Just like that-?”

“I’m a witch, Link. Conjuring and summoning is what I do. Sure, it’s a mighty distance, but like I said. Kolomo hosts some - _hn_ \- magic donors. Pick a color.”

“Anything but green,” stammered Link softly. “I - need to piss. The spellbubble will move with me so - I have to drop it. Sorry.”

Ganondorf shrugged. He didn’t like the idea of adding two more punctures to the uncanny wound, but in the end it didn’t matter. All he needed was for their desperate flight to work - and not be discovered.

On the fifth night, they hit Kolomo.

The mask-god had accepted the no-color unbleached wool kurta in the morning, transforming it into full armor. It kept the illusion of royal black and earth-brown. No one questioned his identity any more than they had at other outposts and settlements and manors. No one noticed the true Ganondorf thirty paces away, either. 

Link acquired provisions by the simple expedient of riding Zharu up to the kitchen door and banging the trishul against it until the frazzled cook came out to investigate. She took one look at her guest and offered a hot meal. 

Link nodded, jerking his thumb in a way that most Hylians seemed to understand meant ‘ _I’m going_.’ 

The woman asked if he needed more than one meal, and if he would give her his waterskin. 

Again, he nodded.

It was enough.

The garrison commander came down to the court to greet him, and ask if he came from the direction of the castle, and if it was true that Harkinian Johannes Nohansen Hyrule was dead.

Link tipped his head, the oryx horns catching the moonlight. He looked down at the man, lifting the trishul a few degrees.

The commander proved uninteligent and unobservant, for he did not see the threat in that small motion. He blabbered on about the rumor - assassins, possibly a heretofore unknown Sheikah, as in the days of Ambrose Dedrick II. He offered the hospitality of the garrison. Invited Lord Dragmire to rest in comfort.

Link thrust the trishul into the man’s unprotected throat.

Cries of shock and horror rose around the garrison. 

Ganondorf himself was surprised - he scrambled to siphon loose magic from the man’s violent end. He almost spoiled the look-away spell with laughing, for Link jerked the trishul free and gestured as if to spit on the dying man. 

“ **Libertine** ,” drawled Link, affecting the same accent Ganondorf adopted much of the time. The pitch of his voice wasn’t right, but these people wouldn’t have heard him much. The mask still rendered Link’s word deep and resonant and terrifying. It worked.

The following night it rained again, and their canvas shelter leaked over Link’s bedroll. It wouldn’t have mattered in the timebubble, but Link didn’t want to take the mask off when they stopped. He’d barely spoken all afternoon. He didn’t bother cooking either, which was unusual, eating leftovers from the midday meal and plain rations.

When the shelter leaked, Link didn’t say a word. He just got up, folded the bedding into a tight roll, leaving it in a dry-ish spot, and walked out into the rain. Alone.


	6. Flight - 3 of 3

On the eighth night, as soon as the bubble was up, Ganondorf caught his hand and insisted the mask come off.

Link set his jaw and refused for three solid minutes of body-time.

Ganondorf did not budge.

Link surrendered. Under the mask, his mortal face reflected the same dispassionate reserve. His blue eyes seemed cold, and slightly out of focus.

“Sit beside me,” suggested Ganondorf. It wasn’t _really_ a suggestion - he was fully prepared to force the issue if necessary.

Link didn’t react for almost half a minute of body-time. At last, he shrugged, and obeyed.

Ganondorf summoned a little copper cup and a flask of Tears from his saddlebags. He crushed a pinch of dried rosepetals into the cup - not as good as fresh, but tolerable, and poured a half-measure of Tears in, stirring it with a slender twist of magic.

Link frowned at the cup.

“You’re supposed to drink it, not flirt with it.”

Link narrowed his eyes.

“It’s your first kill since you awakened,” said Ganondorf softly.

Link winced.

“Listen to me. I am your king in every way that matters. When the mission is over, I will teach you the full purification rites. For now, give me your grief.”

Link raised his head, his blue eyes darting in confusion.

“That’s what it’s for. I will carry and transmute your grief into power. It will work best if you stay close tonight. If you can talk about it, or other things, that will help also.”

“Close,” murmured Link. “Touching?”

“If you want. Think of it like the timesong.”

Link nodded. He drank.

Ganondorf woke to birdsong _inside_ the timebubble somehow. A wood thrush. Maybe two. No doubt as confused by the magic as he’d been the first time. 

He began to stretch, interrupted when he realized his arm was trapped under the ancient warrior. He knew Link had spread his blankets beside his own, which was dangerous to begin with, but he’d allowed it because of the aftermath of Kolomo, and because he usually moved less sleeping in a rough camp. He didn’t expect the man to seize his arm in the night and curl in a tight stone position, pillowing his head on Ganondorf’s bicep and trapping his wrist between his knees.

“Hey. Wake up little hero,” rumbled Ganondorf, watching to see if he stirred. 

He didn’t. 

Ganondorf tried again, louder. He tried insults. He tried taunts. He began to wonder if he was imagining the subtle rise and fall of the man’s shoulder. He couldn’t feel warm breath on his arm through his quilted wool arming suit. He couldn’t hear breath. He couldn’t discern any reaction whatever when he tried to tense and pull his arm free.

Ganondorf swallowed the rising panic, and reached across to brush his golden hair out of his eyes and touch the side of his elegant white neck. He couldn’t tell if the pulse there was Link’s or his own. He slid his hand lower, testing the ridge of the carotid artery, but again he could not tell if he imagined it. Link did not stir.

Ganondorf held his own breath, and touched the man’s delicate lips, feather light.

Ever so faintly, gentle warmth answered him, curling over his fingertips.

Ganondorf exhaled slowly, and held fast to discipline. Link was not a petitioner. He _should not_ kiss the man’s brow in grateful benediction to find him alive and well after a risky night of sleeping beside a monster. He _definitely_ shouldn’t roll over and thank those rosy lips for answering his wish. He _absolutely_ shouldn’t caress his shoulder and kiss his neck and lay him out in the glorious morning to-

_Stop it._

_We cannot afford distractions._

“Leggo little hero, I gotta piss, ok-? C’mon. Up with you,” grumbled Ganondorf, seeking refuge in cold habit. Ten minutes of struggle finally won him an escape, though Link didn’t seem to actually wake up in the process.

He returned to find Link sprawled across the blankets, hand thrust in his trousers, still asleep. Or asleep again. Something.

Ganondorf decided to give him another half hour, and sought discreet shadows on the other side of the camp to attend himself and restore his focus.

On the ninth night, Link spread their blankets side-by side again.

Ganondorf assured him it was no longer necessary.

Link shrugged and said he slept better that way.

Ganondorf cursed him and hid his discomfort in a second cup of tea.

Link seemed to notice anyway, sitting beside him with his hands folded. He reminded Ganondorf that he remembered closeness in some of the shards of his prior life. He spoke of the increasingly bitter winds as winter deepened. The long road still remaining. The challenges ahead. The necessity of true rest to face the enormity of fate.

“All of these are true,” agreed Ganondorf.

Link drew a deep breath. “In this life - when you were young - did you know a child of your people called Angnu? Small and sickly?”

Ganondorf could not hide a twitch of startlement to hear that name for the first time in fifteen years. He said nothing.

Link nodded anyway. He unlaced his fingers and laced them back the other way. “It wasn’t you.”

“What-?”

“If these things are the same as I remember from the before, it wasn’t your fault they died. Neither was the red cough.”

“How do you know these things?” Ganondorf whispered, annoyed by the roughness in his own voice.

“I remembered more pieces. They took the bones of Vaijun from the tomb you were studying and put them in the reservoir under the fortress, shrouding the whole place in miasma. That’s why your magic wouldn’t work right that season. That’s why the plague came. That’s why you couldn’t heal it.”

“Fuck,” breathed Ganondorf, praying to any god that might be listening that the time-bubble was as secure as Link thought.

“Angnu was already dying. You - have a tolerance for poisons because of your sire - and also because you’ve been fed little doses all your life. The honeyglass was already tainted, heavier than normal, enough to make even you delirious and ill. They came in the night to finish it. You escaped the lockup - in some shards I found you, in some I was too late. In some you asked me to fix it, but I couldn’t. In one, you came to me the night before, and I could see they wouldn’t recover, even if dragged out of the miasma. It was in their heart by then. You - were so _angry_.”

Ganondorf stared at him, mind weirdly empty.

“You won’t hurt me in your sleep.”

Ganondorf coughed, scrambling for sensible words. “You spoke of shards where we were mortal enemies. Deaths on both sides. Pain.”

“Yeah. But not in your sleep. Not in _their_ sleep either. When you decide to kill someone, you want them to _know_ . Even from behind, you give them a few beats to _know_ they’re dying, and it’s _your_ hand on the knife. If you knock them unconscious, you wait for them to wake up. Is it because of the spirit magic?”

_How do you know that-?_

“Am I wrong?”

“Maybe the evil king enjoys their pain,” suggested Ganondorf flippantly.

Link cast him a doubtful glance.

Ganondorf sighed, glancing up at the rose-painted sunset. “It’s going to rain by morning. I think I remember a grotto shelter about six hours southwest. It’s not that far out of the way.”

“You want to break camp and keep going?”

Ganondorf shook his head. “Just make it a short day tomorrow. Steal time for a bath.”

“Sounds nice,” agreed Link.

Ganondorf woke to gentle drizzling rain and Link’s arm around his waist.

He watched the man sleep for a full quarter of a body-hour, peaceful and still, his pale face mashed against Ganondorf’s side and one knee propped up against his own.

Ganondorf let himself imagine what it would be like without armor between them.

A part of him regretted the indulgence.

The other part of him fell asleep in the middle of the daydream.

On the twelfth morning he woke to Link’s hand slipped between layers of his arming suit to rest on the ledge of his farther hip. He briefly regretted letting the man persuade him out of the boiled leather plate. 

Then his imagination offered him a visceral impression of the _possibilities_ inherent if he should find the gap between trousers and singlet beneath that. Of warmth and softness. Of deep touch. Of fullness and of comfort. Of rare peace. Of stolen pleasure at the edge of The End.

One small, selfish thing for himself alone, a spark to carry into the darkest of nights.

Ganondorf bit his hand to suppress a whimper of weakness and want.

Link did not awaken.

_It is for the best._

Ganondorf did not believe himself.

On the thirteenth day they stopped at a rare hot spring fed by an ancient dormant volcano, long since eroded into obscurity in the rough scrubland approaching the western border. Ganondorf offered Link the chance to bathe first, expecting him to take advantage at once. That morning his body had been most explicit in announcing its readiness to serve its sleeping master. Ganondorf had entertained another foolish and ill-advised daydream while Link’s overheated cock pressed against his outer thigh, and he fully intended to revisit the idea when he took his turn in the spring.

Link insisted Ganondorf bathe first, while he cooked.

Ganondorf cursed him for a stubborn bastard. He lingered longer than he meant to, grateful to be both clean and warm and out of his damn gear for more than five body-minutes for once. He toyed with himself a little, but he felt too lazy to crawl out of the water to finish.

Accordingly when Link came to the spring to announce the food was ready, he was still inconveniently hard. The water was too clear to veil him, but if the man insisted on getting close enough to look, he deserved what he found. 

So of course Link came to the very edge of the spring, and lingered, fidgeting.

“Murasa steal your tongue, little hero?” Ganondorf rumbled. He cast the man a sidelong glance, unsurprised to see him blushing fiercely.

“I need to see you,” blurted Link.

Ganondorf raised a brow. “I’m _right here._ ”

“I mean I need to see - things. Please.”

Ganondorf tipped his head in curiosity, studying his intense discomfort. He didn’t seem aroused so much as upset. “I don’t know what kind of morality your people taught in your last life but-”

“It’s not like that,” interrupted Link. “I dreamed a thing. It might be a memory. It was weird. The walls were melting and the colors were all wrong. So I need to see if it’s true.”

Ganondorf scowled and shifted in the water to screen his view with a raised knee. “Just because my skin’s hungry doesn’t mean I’ve any intent to fucking force anything on you ok? Demon king or not I’ve _some_ honor. Fuck.”

“ _Not that_ ,” snapped Link. “ _Why_ do you think such _awful_ things-?”

Ganondorf snorted in derision.

“It _was_ a nightmare but it wasn’t about that, ok? It was _bloody_ . I can’t stop seeing it. It hurts. I have to know if - if you do that. I don’t know how to help - or even if it was real - but I _need_ to _know_ , ok? Please?”

Ganondorf frowned. The man didn’t budge, he just stood there, his intense blue eyes pinned, his fists clenching and flexing. So he levered himself out of the water and waded towards the shore.

Link frowned deeply, studying his naked body.

Ganondorf forced his flesh to quiet as much as possible, clenching his own fists at his sides as he stood naked before an ancient warrior, waiting for whatever incomprehensible judgment might fall from his tongue.

“There is a scar,” said Link, flat. His eyes fixed on a long, arcing ridge on his right thigh. 

“A fall. Many years ago. Climbing at night,” said Ganondorf. 

Link worked his jaw, and pointed at his left thigh. “ _Several_ scars.” 

Ganondorf raised a brow. The tally marks carved in his inner thigh were small and subtle, carefully tucked under the curve of the muscle. To mark them at all underscored his close inspection. “Yes.”

Link swallowed hard, clenching and unclenching his fists. “There are more on the left than right. The lowest one on the right is new.”

“Not very. She fell during the spring campaign.”

Link glanced up with a _mrr_ of confusion. “It is not - like the dream? You don’t make these during pleasure?”

“ _Those_ aren't generally permitted to leave scars,” rumbled Ganondorf, baffled by his questions.

“Why? What makes these different?” Link moves half a step closer. “You said _she fell_. Who? What happened?”

“Reiva avadha Varcha. She was young,” said Ganondorf. Objective. Precise. A recitation of fact. “A promising warrior. Clever and courageous and - and kind. It was not an accident and it was not swift.”

“Oh,” whispered Link, his eyes round with surprise. “It's a tally-?”

Ganondorf didn’t bother answering. He turned away and grabbed the linen towel from a rock by the shore of the little spring to dry his hair. A _much_ simpler and faster task since he’d cut it during the advance into Hyrule. 

Link followed, fingertips brushing his elbow. “The ones on your arm. They’re different.”

“Hn,” said Ganondorf, mopping up stray droplets. “Debts of pain.”

“There’s a _lot_.”

Ganondorf didn’t answer. He did permit him to touch the tidy ranks of little hypertrophic wedges tucked along the inside ridge of the medial tricep. Few were anything like recent. Many were _quite_ old. 

Link growled. “I will rip them in half.”

“You’ll have to wait your turn.”

“How about we drop them in Death Mountain?”

Ganondorf laughed, short and bitter. “Tidy, but fast.”

“There’s a dragon there who could make it longer. He’s dead right now, but you can fix that. If he can eat Gorons, he can eat witches,” said Link, his voice hard.

Ganondorf snorted and ruffled his bright hair. “I’ll consider it. Let’s have dinner first though, hn?”


	7. Endurance - 1 of 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adventure-!  
> Dark adventure!  
> Magic! Romance!
> 
> ...
> 
> SMUT FOR THE SMUT GODS

Eighteen days. 

Link stumbled when he dismounted. Gan didn’t notice. He was busy with his younger horse, who was beautiful, but a righteous brat. Zharu was much older, an experienced warmare with just enough mercy to save most of her mischief for morning. Link hid the pain, kneeling to check her hoof. Healing, but too slowly. He slathered a little red chu jelly on her fetlock. It wasn’t good to keep pushing her on long journeys, one day after another, even if he did weigh half of what her master did. 

“No choice,” he muttered under his breath as he stood again. Under the borrowed skin of a dead god, his body said it wasn’t good to push himself either. Without the mask, the pain of too many hours in the saddle and a few too many stalhound bites getting through his guard the night before would surely have been shamefully unmanageable. He didn’t dare take the mask off until it faded - or Ganondorf forced him. 

Eighteen days awake and seventeen of them on the road, fifteen of those beside his ancient enemy. 

Seven of them sharing a more-or-less chaste bed.

Link built a fire near the edge of the stone shelter and settled in to cook the day’s gleanings. He didn’t want to. He wanted to build their bed against the stone wall and stop time. He wanted to persuade Gan out of his armor and curl up beside him.

Under the detachment of the fierce dead god, his skin itched for warmth. For the feeling of his strength. For the benediction of his enveloping hands on his skin and-

_Oh, not again. It’s hard enough convincing him to eat and sleep at all, and never mind any other leisure. It is riding, tending the horses, or sword drill every waking moment._

_He’s obsessed._

_First the triforce, now this. What does it matter_ **_when_ ** _we face Twinrova, as long as he doesn’t let the Calamitous One into his heart?_

Link stared across the little camp, watching Ganondorf feed oats to his horses. It was easier to look at him in this form, where the magic - or the spirit of the dead god - muffled all feeling. With every passing night, being near Ganondorf in his own skin grew more difficult. The shards of lives where they fought, where he killed - these remained painfully strong either way, but the achingly _soft_ memories pulled back before the fury of the divine warrior.

“Hey, wake up little hero. The soup is burning,” growled Gan as he carried Asifad’s saddle into the shelter.

Link grumbled in return, crouching over the pot to scrape bits from the bottom of the iron cauldron. He couldn’t smell any char - but it could be the mask muting his senses. He didn’t want to serve bad food. He didn’t want to upset Gan. Not just because of the demon threat hanging over them, but because it hurt when he was angry.

“It’s time,” said Gan, approaching the fire.

“ **It is time,** ” repeated Link in the Geld’o language, frowning in concentration over the pitch and inflection. Gan wanted him to learn only that one phrase, but to learn it perfectly. He said that it was particularly important to the plan, though Link didn’t think it was possible to sound anything like Gan, even with the voice of the dead god behind his words.

“Not _practice_ ,” grumbled Gan. “I mean let’s get the timespell ward up.”

“ **What about dinner-?** ”

“It’s cooked enough,” said Gan.

Link sighed, and lifted the lid of the shallow pot. “ **Bread’s not done.** ”

Gan grunted and stalked off without another word.

 _Why does he want the bubble so early tonight-?_ Link watched his shadow moving among the scrubby spicebean thorntrees, but he didn’t seem to be harvesting. Unless he was using magic. _Which would be a bad idea - we’re still two days from the next garrison. And he didn’t say if he knows of wicked people there. What if there aren’t? Will he kill a good person for their magic if there’s_ **_not_ ** _a bad one?_

Full dark fell, and with it, light sleet.

Gan did not return.

Link began to wonder if he’d lost track of Gan among the shadows of the trees and rocks, and was wasting his time watching nothing. He stood, but still could not tell. He moved the bread and soup away from the coals and followed.

“You move so heavily it is a wonder you can hunt anything at all,” he grumbled without turning or even looking over his shoulder. He seemed to fidget with something, and he cursed under his breath. “One _would_ expect a tiny hero to make tiny noises - or is this a skill you left behind in your last life?”

Link hesitated. The lumpy shadow _was_ Gan after all. Standing alone, away from the fire and shelter and food as the weather reminded them of the season. “ **You are not ok.** ”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” snapped Gan, rolling his shoulders and resettling his pauldrons. They seemed to bother him more now than when they started the push west. “Food?”

Link grunted in agreement and returned to the fire. They ate in mundane time, in silence. In the sleet. Gan did not mention the spell again. When his bowl and cup were empty, he set them beside the fire for Link to clean and ducked into the shelter. He did not take his armor off or lay down. He sat at the back, leaning against the stone. 

And closed his golden eyes.

As if he would sleep sitting up. Wet. Cold. Silent.

Even under the mask, his chest hurt to see Gan like that.

_Maybe he is worried. We get closer to the desert with every hour we ride. Maybe he is thinking the closer we get to the TwinRova the more dangerous it is. I don’t remember anything like that until we reach the wall of black wind, but there have been stalhounds the last few days - and they don’t seem to obey him._

_Or he doesn’t want to spend magic to turn them away._

_Or can’t._

Link swallowed his misgivings and cleaned away the remnants of the meal.

Gan did not move.

Link pulled the helm off when he ducked inside the shelter, and draped Gan’s cloak over one of the saddles. Probably Zharu’s, since it was bigger. He knelt beside the quiet king.

Gan neither moved nor opened his eyes. He _had_ to be aware of Link’s presence - he’d made clear his contempt for Link’s attempts at stealth.

 _So why is he ignoring me-? What did I do wrong?_ Link unwound his belt and pulled out the ocarina.

Gan did not open his eyes. “Not tonight.”

Link frowned. “ **You wanted it before.** ”

“I changed my mind.”

Not putting the timespell bubble up meant he couldn’t take the mask off. Meant Gan wouldn’t sleep beside him. Meant he wouldn’t take his armor off. Meant he would want to break camp again before dawn. “ **Two days.** ”

Gan shrugged.

“ **You are not ok.** ”

“ _Enough_ , little hero. It’s none of your concern.”

Link considered playing the song anyway. Using the hookshot chains to restrain him again. He could probably work the gorget and pauldrons off with a steel tool, maybe even the vambraces if he was careful, but he couldn’t get Gan out of the rest of the armor and wet clothing without touching him and bringing him into spell-time.

So Link left the shelter to lead the horses to another nearby overhang and played the storm-song instead, transforming the light sleet into a howling tempest. When he returned to their own smaller shelter, Gan’s golden eyes reflected fury.

“ **I’m not sorry,** ” said Link.

“Jackass,” snapped Gan, flipping the little knife in one hand impatiently. He gestured for Link to move closer.

They raised the timespell.

Gan wouldn’t let him help with the armor until he took the mask off. He didn’t seem to want to look at the phantom glamour outside of cursory inspection before they dropped the bubble in the mornings, and when he said he needed to repair the matrix. He acted different when Link was wearing his reflection. Colder. 

_Why? It was_ **_his_ ** _idea._

As soon as he was down to his arming suit, he ordered Link to stand before him and lift the kurta, as he often did. It was stained now from many nights of raising the ward, but strangely, stabbing through the beglamoured armor of the god did not cut the mundane shirt. Neither did it cut the tidy stitches - only disturbed the flesh and brought fresh blood to the surface - as if the threads holding the wound shut over the hidden stone belonged to some other time, some other world.

Link shivered as Gan touched him, fingertips sliding delicately over the skin on either side of the wound. His insides tightened and trembled. It happened every time he decided to inspect it on this body. Once again he found himself wishing Gan would press his whole warm hand against him, and not just his fingertips.

It was foolish. It was purposeless. Yet every time, it reminded him of the dreamlike shard when he touched bloody wounds on Gan’s thighs in a place that dripped and echoed and closed in on them, and at the same time of the shard when they lay together in a small bed in a small room that smelled of baking bread and roasting apples, curled under soft blankets and wearing nothing but trousers. Both memories hurt with something like loss, from different directions, both laced with guilt.

“This shouldn’t be possible,” grumbled Gan. “You _have_ put potion on this?”

“I’m not the one you should worry about,” blurted Link.

“I’m not the one with a hole in my gut that won’t heal,” he growled, pulling his hand away.

“Maybe not on the outside,” said Link, letting the soft linen fall back into place.

Gan snorted in derision and shrugged out of the damp wool arming coat.

“I mean it,” said Link, kneeling beside him. “Something besides the Big Thing is wrong. Did I make you mad?”

“No,” said Gan, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Just tired.”

Link caught his other hand. Touching him always made him either pull away or freeze. This time it was the latter. “Then let’s stay until _everything_ is washed and dry. I can probably find a little deer in the morning, and we can raise the bubble again after, for as long as it takes.”

“Why bother?” Gan looked away at the frozen storm.

“Because you are not ok,” said Link, pressing his hand. Gan was like a cat sometimes, refusing to acknowledge any flaw in anything he did, and refusing to give ground before a challenge. He’d eaten, and compromised on the timespell. _But for him to break eye contact first -_ “I’m tired too. We should rest while we still can. Maybe I can help with your shoulders.”

Gan turned back, frowning. “What?”

“Your shoulders are hurting you. Do you have oils? If you lay on your stomach I can help loosen the knots. I am strong, remember?”

Gan pulled his lip under his teeth and quirked a brow briefly, as if he might argue. He didn’t. He shrugged, and nodded toward the saddlebags. “Smaller blue pocket. Not oil, but salve. More efficient for the trail. Work a tiny bit into your hands first, and bring the rest of the tin over.”

The clean, herbal scent of the salve filled the little shelter as he worked it into Gan’s skin. It took more than a full body-hour before his muscles started to warm and loosen under Link’s hands. He offered no conversation, just lay on the blankets, stripped to the waist with his arms folded under his chin. Sometimes he gave a direction - harder, softer, twist, press.

It was hard work.

He took the kurta off so he wouldn’t get salve and sweat on it. 

Every time Gan allowed a little grunt of pleasure as a knot untangled, a thrill trembled his insides. He tried to think about the work, but his mind kept drifting back to the shivery feeling. It happened more and more often every day. Sometimes it led to his skin prickling and tightening, sometimes it made him ache, especially when Gan wrapped an arm around him in the night, or offered one of his rare, _genuine_ smiles.

 _Or apparently when he_ **_moans_ ** _\- oh it feels good - why is this happening? Oh - he will notice for sure this time. What should I do?_ Link bit his lip and raised up on his knees, hoping it would make enough space between them so his throbbing wouldn’t be obvious. 

“I don’t _mind_ ,” murmured Gan.

“Oh _damnit_ ,” breathed Link. “I didn’t mean anything bad. I swear.”

“You have perhaps forgotten it is the nature of bearing a thorn,” rumbled Gan, turning his head just enough one golden eye caught the torchlight. “Warmth. Movement. It doesn’t mean anything on its own except you’re warmer.”

“But you were mad before and I _really_ didn’t mean anything bad then,” said Link.

“I wasn’t _mad_ , I was _annoyed_ by what appeared to be a disingenuous ploy for sex.” Gan sighed. “I see Hyrule was an _idiotic_ country even in your last life. Desire is _not_ a sin.”

“It’s not about _Hyrule_ ,” said Link, tracing a faint, thin, pale line across his shoulderblade, mostly hidden by the Gerudo heraldic mark. “I mean, it is, but it isn’t. It’s bad because I remember you don’t like touching, and _because I killed you_ . How can it _ever_ be ok to enjoy touching you after what I’ve done? They told me to, sure, but it was _still my hand_.”

“What does it matter if it _was_ you, once? I have lived my whole life on stolen time,” rumbled Ganondorf. He twisted a little further, a position that could not be in any way comfortable. His sharp profile revealed nothing of his feelings. “I am the dwelling-place of Ganon, the Calamitous One, the Great Destroyer, the Rending Dark. He will take even _one hour_ in an unwilling host rather than abide the Golden Law. Until you awakened, without the limitless power of the triforce, my _one_ point of leverage was offering him something _they_ can’t: so long as it is _my choice_ , He has as many hours to seed misery and chaos as _I_ choose to give him.”

“How is that _good_?” Link cried, digging his fingers into Gan’s strong back as the bloodrage moved through his bones.

“So long as I have the freedom to think, I have the freedom to _plan_ ,” rumbled Gan, his golden eyes sliding shut. “So long as I can plan, I can act _on_ and _in_ the world. So long as the smallest hope persists, He may yet be defeated.”

Link sat back down, trying to shake off his disquiet. “I hate that you think that way.”

“Don’t recall asking your permission,” sneered Gan, turning away and straightening his back. “Either get back to the bodywork or get off of me so I can sleep.”

Link sighed, deliberately relaxing his hands. “Are your shoulders feeling better? Do you _want_ sleep now? Or is this because you’re mad?”

“I’m not mad,” rumbled Gan. “I don’t want to talk about _Him_ . I don’t _care_ about the rest.”

Link frowned, tracing the valleys and ridges of his spine, watching how the rhythm of his breath stumbled. “Why do you only ever say what you _don’t_ want?”

“Complicated,” murmured Gan. 

“Your shoulders are still tight. Is it - ok if I keep working?”

“If you like,” he murmured, hitching a shoulder ever so little. As if it didn’t matter. As if Link couldn’t feel the rush of heat in his skin at the offer. As if he couldn’t hear the burr in the rumbling, nonchalant dismissal. 

“I do like,” murmured Link in return, sliding his hands up to the deltoid ridge to begin again.

Link could not sleep alone more than four body-hours without startling himself awake. Sometimes it was a dream, sometimes a noise. Laying beside Gan he often managed to double that. Gan said it didn’t make any sense, that reason said he should sleep _less_ . Yet he _also_ stayed asleep longer when they shared blankets.

Many shards of memory agreed: howsoever illogical the companionship of warrior sage and demon thief, it had been true before. 

Link lay awake in the middle of another spell-frozen night, trying to remember if he had struggled with his flesh in those lives. He suspected it was so, that his skin was remembering things his mind refused when he roused from formless dreamhaze with his cock so tight and hot with need he couldn’t string a whole thought together. 

He wished he’d opened a fairy shrine. He wished he wouldn’t have to leave Gan frozen or vulnerable to go find one. He wished the dreams would either show themselves, or stop.

 _Wishing changes nothing._ Link scrubbed sleep-sand from his eyes. 

Gan didn’t move. His breath remained even and slow. The dim orange wash of the torchlight shimmered on his oiled olive-brown skin. The blanket had fallen back, and his broad chest seemed even more enormous than usual. Every delicate red curl - so fine they were usually invisible, when Gan permitted them to exist at all - stood on end, and his nipples rose hard and taut. 

Link felt a phantom salty softness on his tongue and he fought the sudden urge to put his mouth on Gan’s chest and suck on his nipple. He remembered the first time he kissed a fairy’s breasts, and he remembered how afterwards his skin rebuked him every time he noticed a woman’s nipples through her bodice. He’d never _thought_ about a man’s nipples before, or he didn’t think he had. 

_And now I can’t stop-! Would he like it? Would_ **_I_ ** _like it? If he let me, what would happen next? Only one of the fairies ever kissed my chest like that - Malon did when we were married, but then she - she would give me hers and - oh no. I can’t. I just can’t_. 

Link wriggled and squirmed his way out of Gan’s arms, muttering an excuse about necessity when Gan grunted a wordless query. Gan grumbled a non-answer, but on the third try, finally let go. He didn’t seem to actually wake up. Which was good - because there was _no way_ he wouldn’t have noticed Link’s breeches halfway unlaced and his erection threatening to poke through if he’d opened his eyes. 

So far west, there were few trees. Some rocks, some scrubby bushes. Overall, very little cover. At least the stormsong had run its course, so while the muddy ground was miserably cold, the air wasn’t so bad. Link knelt in the muddy grass with his back to the shelter, as far away as he dared to go without stranding Gan in frozen time.

He tried to think only of fairies.

Vast, soft, flowery Great Fairies.

Laughing and kissing him. Whisking his clothes and armor away. Gathering him to their soft breasts. Kissing his face and neck. Holding their vast breasts high so he could suck nectar from one nipple, then the other. Pushing and pulling him between their thighs. Plunging his cock into their deep honeyed springs. Burying his face in warmth and wet and pulsing magical flesh to kiss the flowers between their soft thighs. Being enveloped in their shining glory, their warmth, their flowerpetal touches. Curling up in rose-pink softness for as long as his body would let him.

Finally, _finally,_ his body let him find the sharp little cliff of shuddering pleasure.

He spilled himself into the darkness with a sigh of relief. 

Except.

At the end, warm rose-pink flowers had given way to hot red spices and olive-brown strength. _Beg me for merciful release, little hero. Let’s hear that sweet voice sing tonight. Let that pretty hand wander again._

Link shivered. His cock throbbed.

“Fairies, think of the fairies,” he whispered to himself.

He started over.

Gan lay sprawled on his back in the little shelter. The blanket had fallen farther, baring him to the hip. At first, he seemed to be asleep with his arm over his face to block the light.

Then he moaned.

Soft, muffled. His sharp teeth sinking into his own forearm.

His hips arced.

His right hand wasn’t resting on the blanket at all.

Link slapped a hand over his mouth to silence the oath on his tongue as Gan arced slowly up into his fist. His chest heaved. He lowered himself again, slow, whimpering in agony. He shifted his left arm, fitting the side of his thumb into his teeth. 

Link crouched beside a completely insufficient shrub, mesmerized.

He didn’t pump his fist at all. He twisted and slid, slow and gentle, fingertips teasing his shining crown, palm gentling his taut shaft. He arced into his own touch, always measured, always every muscle straining with the effort. He bit at his own wrist, his hand, his forearm, his bicep, muffling his deep voice _almost_ enough. He grasped his thick shaft with the barest tips of his fingers, teasing the sheath up to the ridge and back. Slow, slow, his breaths few but shudderingly deep.

Link thrust his hand in his breeches again, pressing his palm against the rekindling heat. It hurt - he ached deep inside, but his tip felt surrounded by a thousand pins, everything too sharp. The flat pressure against his shaft didn’t help anything after all.

Gan wrapped his fist around himself again with a muffled groan.

And still he did not tug at himself.

Link unlaced his breeches and mimicked his grasp, careful to keep his fingers well back from the corona ridge. Habit said he should pump his fist, that he should milk his half-hard cock until the tension settled. Shame said he should stop, should look away, should think of something, anything else.

Gan lifted his hand up his shaft, opening his fingers as he went. He cradled his tip in the cage of his fingers, doing something too subtle to see, but which made him moan again.

Link shivered, and his cock throbbed, listening to that moan. He couldn’t bear to mirror that at all - but when Gan descended again with a smooth undulation in the tension of his hand, Link tried that. It reminded him of the shards when women throbbed around him, crying the names of the gods in the middle of the night. _He_ throbbed so hard it hurt.

Gan pulled his hand away with a low groan - and released his other hand from his teeth. Link watched him lick his palm and suck his own fingers, many times, until his hand glistened and dripped.

“ _Haaaahyesss_ ,” sighed Gan to the night, slipping his dripping hand over his cock. He twitched his hand around the middle of his cock only a little, licking his other hand the same way. When it dripped, he slid his first hand up to the crown and off, replacing it with his other, wetter hand. Now he licked his first hand hastily, sliding the second in a steady, slow press - followed by the first. Both fists on himself, dripping, tight.

“ _Hnnnnffff_ ,” groaned Gan. His hips twitched. He panted for breath.

So did Link.

His hands grew still. He pulled his hips down.

Link licked his palms, frantic, needful. He whimpered in mingled pleasure and pain to touch his tip, but even with the sharp edge to it, thrusting into his wet fists felt too good to stop.

Gan thrust up into his fists with a harsh, hissing breath.

Link reset his fists at the top and tried again. He pulled his own hips back when Gan did. 

It was good.

It was _wrong_.

He couldn’t stop.

Gan moaned, sending a ripple of lightning through his core.

Link thrust, imagining Gan’s arms around him. Imagining Gan’s hand on him instead of his own. Imagining Gan’s nipple on his tongue.

“ _Oh_ ,” he cried as he came. The orgasm reached much deeper this time, crashing through him unlike any other since he awakened.

Gan groaned again, longer and more resonant. He didn’t seem to be moving.

Link gasped for breath, his hands dripping with cum, his cock still throbbing.

Gan still didn’t move. He panted, likewise breathless.

Link wondered if he too had cum without warning.

Gan - pulled his right hand away, glistening with milky white - _and licked it_.

“ _Gods_ ,” breathed Link in shock. He watched Gan clean every last drop of cum from his hand. He looked at his own. He thought about trying it. He shivered in mingled fear and anticipation. Gan seemed to like it. Maybe it was good.

Mostly it was cold and sticky, a little sour, a little salty. He felt sorry for every time he’d accidentally made women taste it. He didn’t feel sorry for the fairies, because fairies were weird anyway, and they’d _asked_ for him to spill on their tongues specifically, many times.

He watched Gan lick his other hand clean too, scooping up stray drops from his glistening stomach and bobbing shaft. He wondered if it was different when it was still hot.

He wondered if Gan tasted the same as he did.

Gan summoned a cloth from nowhere, mopping up the last hints of wetness. He tucked his half-softened cock back under his clothing, buttoning his fall-front trousers back into order. He tugged the blanket up to his waist - and seemed to fall asleep.

Link watched him lay like that for a long time.

Gan barely moved at all when he _finally_ found the courage to crawl back into bed.


	8. Endurance - 2 of 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adventure-!  
> Dark adventure!  
> Magic! Romance!
> 
> ...
> 
> SMUT FOR THE SMUT GODS

Morning wasn’t really _morning_ with the timesong bubble up. When their bodies said it should be morning, they got up and assembled breakfast and tea. The magic was weird about cooking, letting the fire move a little, but grow neither hotter nor colder. Water would boil, but bread would stop baking. Grain and fruit would cook, but meat wouldn’t.

Gan said the magic surely had rules behind the things that seemed like nonsense, and something about entropy, whatever that was. He didn’t talk much in the mornings. Then again, he spent more time brooding than speaking at every station of the day.

“What is lotus?” Link blurted, his tongue running away from him in the middle of eating his porridge. 

Gan lifted a brow, tipping his head in the hawklike way he had when he was curious.

“The first night, you asked ‘lotus or butterfly’ and I still don’t understand the question. It was bothering me, that’s all.”

“Ah,” said Gan. He ate another bite of his breakfast and leaned down to set his bowl aside. “It’s a way of being. In the way dancing and fighting have patterns, my people give names to patterns of being. One word, and the pattern is known, instead of having to explain that one should move here, do thus, and so. All of the patterns have several meanings, depending on how and when it’s said.”

“Geld’o is _complicated_ ,” said Link with a sigh. “I will never learn.”

Gan snorted in derision. He pulled his left leg up, tucking his foot under his right knee, and folding his left knee down to touch the stone he sat on. He rested his wrists on his knees, his massive hands light and relaxed. “This is a variation of the pattern - descending lotus. You see, the right foot being down is important, rooting one in the power of the earth, making one ready to rise, and act. Yet it is still open, receiving and giving at once. It is a bridge between the mortal and spirit worlds. It is the way of teaching, guiding, sharing.”

“I remember you sitting this way many times, in other lives.”

“I am King,” said Gan with a wry grin. He pulled his right leg up in mirror of the left, graceful and balanced. “This is full lotus.”

Link frowned in thought. “If the foot down is _bridging_ to action then - lotus is _not_ action. It is receiving?”

“Exactly so. It is a way of contemplation, a cultivation of stillness and listening and - also of giving, but giving of self, more than of knowledge or action.”

“I don’t think I _ever_ knew that’s what you meant when you would sit with me like that,” said Link, hanging his head as his cheeks burned with embarrassment.

“Perhaps not in words,” said Gan equitably.

Link set his own breakfast aside and awkwardly folded himself the same way. It hurt a little, stretching parts of his thighs he didn’t know could stretch, placing a strange tension on his knees. “I don’t see how you can have sex like this though. How would you even - I mean, I try to move my hips and I start to fall over. Not that I can make sense of how sex would work with two men anyway.”

“I gathered that much,” said Gan with a sardonic smirk. “You’d learn both pretty quickly if you come sit in my lap.”

“ _Um_ ,” squeaked Link.

Gan laughed. Deep and rich and carrying. 

Link felt warmth in his chest to hear it again, even though again, it was a joke at his own expense.

“You’re cute when you blush,” said Gan when at length the laugh tapered into a chuckle. “You’re so pale it’s just - and it’s so _easy_ . One blossom after another, _whoosh_ , and your pretty face is pink as a damn ruby. _How_ are you such a fierce warrior when your sensibilities are as delicate as gossamer reedsilk?”

Link hung his head in shame and applied himself to his breakfast. “Fighting’s _different_.”

“Sometimes,” countered Gan.

Link remembered the way their last spar went, and decided to bite his tongue before he could make things any worse.

Gan noticed him stumble when they were setting camp that night. Crossed the camp to help him to his feet again. Touched his hand and waist with strength and tenderness despite the mask and illusion. He said nothing, gesturing to their crude shelter. Smaller than the night before, nothing but a slope of canvas and a few poles. He helped Link out of the cloak and helm, drawing from his boot the knife they always used for the spell now.

The thrust that turned the song into a bubble ten paces wide never really hurt much. Yet Gan always frowned over the wound, and always made him put red chu jelly on it, though it only ever knit up the new cut.

Gan still said nothing, gesturing in silence for him to take the mask off. Something about his eyes seemed different, but he couldn’t say quite what or why.

“Just tired,” said Link with a wry grin of his own. “I _am_ only nineteen days awake. My bones are rusty I guess.”

“That is not a thing,” countered Gan, rumbling low and serious. “The bluestone or the void around it or the incision - _something_ in this insanity is sapping your strength. You cannot fight like this.”

“I fought _just fine_ when those peahats and leevers came at us this afternoon,” grumbled Link, though a part of his mind was chanting: _your hand feels nice._

“You most certainly did not. You claim to have defeated me in battle before, yet today a bunch of _carnivorous_ _plants_ got past your guard, not once but many times. We’ll have to reverse the spell in the morning, and you will hang back. Maybe even stay here. We’ll lose a day’s progress but with a bit of bloodharvest-”

“No. I’m not letting you slaughter people,” snapped Link.

“That is _not_ what I meant,” returned Gan sharply, pulling his hands away. “A few _idiots_ might need to fall, but the rest is siphoning passions. Violence and fear. Always abundant anywhere Hylians are.”

“Oh,” said Link, chagrined. “I don’t know very much about magic.”

“Maybe you should.”

Link worried at his lip, looking into his frighteningly intense golden eyes. “Will you teach me?”

Gan worked his jaw. “No, but not for the reason you think.”

“What is the reason?”

“The reason is _it’s not your business_ , little hero,” snapped Gan, eyes flashing. “I am King. I do not have to explain myself to you or anyone. After this is over, you may have freedom of my library if you still want it, and I will answer technical or linguistic questions as I have time, but _that is all_. Understood?”

“Sorry,” said Link, baffled by his vehemence.

“Hn,” said Gan. He turned heel and stalked away without another word until dinner.

After the garrison, Gan made him lay down on blankets under the open sky, stripped to his undergarments, without the mask, the illusion, or the timebubble guarding them. He said the circles he’d carved in the red dirt and annointed with blood and oil would guard them for two hours. He sat beside Link in square - a compact sort of kneeling position - and attempted a spell he didn’t bother explaining. 

He cursed.

He summoned a fat beeswax candle and a slender box of incomprehensible steel and obsidian tools.

He cut a stitch with a delicate obsidian shard. Then another. Working from the center out, he opened the wound, prodding his flesh apart with tools purified by fire. He seemed to cut more stitches. He poked and prodded, frowning and muttering to himself in a language Link didn’t know. He wound a coil of lightning about his right hand - and thrust a fingertip down into the opening. It felt strange and tingly, but it didn’t really hurt.

Gan began to sing under his breath.

Link bit his lip at the unexpected beauty of his deep voice, and tried to stay still as Gan asked. He tried to remember if he’d ever heard Gan sing before. He remembered music, but nothing like the phrases on his tongue now. His skin tickled, and it was difficult to hold back the questions. The candle burned. Time slid past them.

Gan withdrew his tools - and then his hand. He pressed his palm over the wound.

He _smiled_.

Link’s heart stumbled.

“Good,” said Gan, nodding. Spare and short, yet an undeniable, unambiguous word of _praise_ . Probably for the spell, and not his flesh, but Link suddenly realized that he gave _one single word_ more meaning than other people put in a hundred flowery professions. With a wave, he extinguished the candle and vanished all his tools. He handed Link the ocarina.

They wove the timebubble together once again.

The little knife made a new tiny puncture, which soon healed with a dollop of chu jelly spooned inside. The rest of the wound was gone, leaving a perfect tidy scar in its place.

“You left the stone,” murmured Link, touching the thin dry ridge of new skin.

“For now,” agreed Gan. Cool and rational again. “Your muscles have shifted around it. You will lose strength for some time when it is removed. If your endurance continues to erode, we will know for certain the stone is the root cause, and can address it then.”

“You _are_ a healer,” said Link, more than a little shocked. “How can a healer kill?”

“Easily. Mastering the one art is an essential part of mastering the other. Let’s see about dinner, hn?”

They made their shelter against a vast boulder that night. Gan seemed to move more easily, and he made wry little jokes over dinner. His grins were sardonic, but nonetheless, _he grinned_.

Every time, Link felt a tremor in his core.

“What is butterfly?” Link asked after he’d cleared the food away.

Gan studied him in silence for a moment. “Why?”

“The first night. You taught me what lotus meant, but never answered about butterfly.”

Gan pulled his lip between his teeth, but otherwise did not move.

“Sorry. I was just curious what that pattern means, and why it and lotus were ok but square wasn’t. I learned many things about the desert in the shards of before, but not that.”

“Not just square, _any_ kneeling pattern,” corrected Gan. “And the why is: I didn’t want to, because my knees hurt.”

“But lotus is bending too - wouldn’t that hurt the same?”

“A little, but in a stretching way, rather than pressure,” said Gan, rolling his shoulders. He’d taken his armor off to eat, and opened the front panel of the arming coat. Now he shrugged out of it, sitting against the rock in shirt and quilted trousers. He drew his long legs up, but not into lotus. He tugged his boots off and pressed the soles of his feet together, folding his knees down until they touched the ground. He grasped his ankles and bowed at the waist. His spine made many alarming pops as he bowed and straightened, then leaned back against the rock. He slid his hands up his thighs to rest at his hips, elbows akimbo.

Link laughed at himself, shaking his head. “Of course. Your limbs are the wings.”

“Hn,” said Gan, lips curling in faint amusement.

“How does it work?” Link stammered, his face flooding with heat. It seemed worse, knowing Gan could see his embarrassment so easily - and the heat spread even deeper still knowing that it amused him. 

Gan raised a brow. “You are not asking about the spirit of the pattern.”

Link couldn’t make his tongue work. He shook his head no, nervous that his body might stir at any moment.

“Come here. Stand astride,” rumbled Gan softly. 

Link obeyed, praying the trembling feeling was only _inside_ his skin, safely hidden. 

“Put your hands in my hair,” murmured Gan. 

Link obeyed, threading his fingers through his wild short locks. 

Gan shifted his own hands, brushing against his ankles. Rising, sliding, warm. Cupping his calves, his thighs. “You are - delicate and small, but this - there are other ways to use it but - this pattern brings you into easy reach.”

“Easy-?” Link echoed, his stomach turning over. _Gan never struggles with his words._

Gan nodded very faintly, otherwise frighteningly still. 

“Do you - like kissing there?” Link hazarded. He felt his flesh tighten and throb at the thought. “Some fairies do, but Malon didn’t seem to. Ruto did, but she _bites_.”

“Depends on who the thorn belongs to,” rumbled Gan. “I wouldn’t mind it.”

“High praise,” groaned Link, mortified, starting to pull away.

Gan held him fast. “The acquaintance is too slight. _As yet_.”

“Um,” said Link, burning all the way to his ears. “I never thought you - the Great King - would do something like that. With anyone.”

“I do a lot of things,” murmured Gan. He flexed his hands against the back of Link’s thighs. “Would you sing for me, little hero?”

Link shivered. He withdrew his hands from Gan’s hair and tugged at his laces. 

Gan curved his hands into claws, dragging the breeches lower as he loosened them. 

Link untied the string of his fitted drawers also, easing the cloth down. His skin burned. He felt dizzy. 

Gan reached his tongue out to tease and beckon. He pulled Link closer.

Link cradled his throbbing cock in his left hand, offering himself to his once-enemy. He stroked his other hand through Gan’s hair, hissing in torment as Gan teased him with tiny flicks and swirls. He craved more, but he was terrified any movement, any _word_ might ruin it. 

Gan gave him more. He kissed and suckled, drawing him closer, guiding his cock onto his warm tongue. His hands kneaded and stroked his thighs, his hips, his ass, coaxing his need to increase still more. 

Link _tried_ not to thrust.

Gan’s lips and tongue felt too good. Lightning raced under his skin. He couldn’t help it. 

Gan hummed in amusement, sucking a little harder, wrapping his lips tight around his shaft. He flexed a hand, seeming to urge him forward. 

Link arched his hips tentatively. 

Gan hummed again.

Link shivered.

Gan grasped his wrist, dragging his left hand up to join the other in his hair. He cupped Link’s ass. 

Link pressed tentatively deeper. Deeper. Sliding by tiny degrees deeper into his throat until he balanced precariously on his toes, clutching desperately to Gan’s fiery hair, throbbing and buried to the hilt in heat and wet. 

Gan nudged his hip.

Link pulled back. Trembling, gasping for air. 

“ _Hn_ ,” said Gan, his breath hot. He swirled his tongue around and suckled the corona until he cried out. He pulled Link close again. 

Guided him through every stroke. Subtle, yet firm. Humming and grunting his amusement as he taught Link how he wanted him to fuck his mouth.

His head spun. 

He couldn’t stop. 

“ _Ohno_ ,” he moaned, shivering in pleasure as his root tightened and threatened to spill. He _tried_ to pull back. 

Gan’s hands refused to allow it. He sucked _hard_. Relaxed. Again. On the third, it was too much.

Link did, in fact, sing.


	9. Endurance - 3 of 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adventure-!  
> Dark adventure!  
> Magic! Romance!
> 
> ...
> 
> SMUT FOR THE SMUT GODS

Gan held him afterwards, drawing him down to sit astride his lap and lay against his chest. His warm hands stroked his back, combed through his hair, cradled his ass. 

Link’s head buzzed with chaos in the aftermath. One part of his awareness focused intently on the heat under him and pressing against the joint of his thigh. Gan was _hard_.

“I’ve never - I don’t think I’ve done it before,” mumbled Link, embarrassed but unwilling to stir from the comfortable warmth of his embrace. “I won’t be any good.”

“Hn. You were good enough,” rumbled Gan, licking his lips with a deliberately noisy smack that made his insides tremble again. “Ready for another lesson so soon, little hero?”

“Mnnf. I meant _doing_ the kissing,” grumbled Link, nuzzling his face into Gan’s chest. His loose linen shirt was soft, and his skin smelled like spicebark and herbs. Which reminded him of the night before the garrison, and the open question of his nipples. He thought about asking first, the way Gan did. But Gan was graceful and smart. He knew _how_ to say things. Link was forever saying things that made Gan hear different meanings than he meant. Mistakes that so often made him mad.

_Action can’t be misheard._

Link shifted just enough so his tongue could reach the gentle little puckered rise of Gan’s nipple under the fine cloth.

“Hello,” said Gan, hands going still. 

“Hi,” murmured Link, inching closer to fit his lips around it. The texture of the linen grew harsh once damp, but the flesh beneath was so warm and tender, and Gan was drawing a long breath and _not stopping him_. He tried a little bite, more gentle than Ruto. 

Gan’s breath sharpened. “Hn. _Innocent_ of men are you.”

“It’s true,” said Link, surrendering his prize and sagging against him. “I was curious if it would be like kissing women there. It’s close, but you’re - less soft. Which makes me think about biting. I dunno.”

“Savage,” rumbled Gan, but his hands guided him to the other side of his chest, pulling his lips close enough to tease over the other firm little rise. 

Link nibbled at him first this time, enjoying the way his breath caught with every little nip. 

“No wonder they sculpted a _wolf_ as your grave portrait,” rumbled Gan. His thighs tensed. His hips rocked ever so slightly. His hardness throbbed in a way that made Link’s core tighten again.

Link let him rest, winding his arms around Gan’s broad chest as much as possible. Which wasn’t very far at all. “Do _you_ sing? For people who know how to kiss _you_ that way? Is it - hard to learn? I remember ladyflowers were a hard puzzle, all different. Some would yell or pray when I did good, and that was nice.”

“Hn,” said Gan, in the tone that said he was amused. At Link’s expense. Again. 

“Do _you_ like ladyflowers?”

“Depends on who the _flowers_ belong to,” rumbled Gan. “When such an oasis floods-”

“Oh _yes_ , the hot and wet on my face, _nnnf_. I like that,” agreed Link.

“Hnn,” said Gan. “ _Honeywine_.”

“Yeah,” agreed Link, wriggling his hips in a vain effort to resettle his own returning stiffness. “Feels good on my cock too, but I think - I remember it as rare and hard.”

“Depends on the tastes of the avadha as much as anything one might do with her,” rumbled Gan. “After our victory, I will introduce you to my sisters, if you like. I have no doubt a pretty little hero with a taste for honeywine on his fair face could become a popular entertainment.”

“You call me pretty a lot,” mumbled Link.

“It is true.”

“I don’t remember people saying that about me before. But I think - _you_ maybe did. It feels familiar and warm somehow,” confessed Link. “I like it even more when you say - when you call something good. Which you don’t, much. It makes _me_ want to _be good_ , to hear you say it about _me_ , to see you smile because of something I did or found for you. I keep thinking about it, even when I shouldn’t.”

“Hn. A master of the sword with an appetite for service,” rumbled Gan. He flexed his thighs again.

“Maybe,” agreed Link. “I _do_ like to help.”

“That’s one way to put it,” said Gan with a thin laugh. 

“Would - trying kisses be helping? I dunno if I would like it yet, and I _know_ I won’t be good at it, but I _wonder_. What it’s like.”

“I suppose we could arrange a different sort of lesson,” rumbled Gan, cool and rational and dispassionate, though his body flooded with heat and his cock throbbed mightily.

“Does it hurt?”

“It can. Like any muscle, the jaw can ache, and the throat can spasm and close, the body reject the offering,” said Gan. His deep resonance grew halting, as if his next words were harder to shape. “Some find that pain interesting, or the risk of that pain, from one side or the other. Many Hylians... prefer patterns that _by definition_ hurt the one who opens. There is power in pain, and Hylians lust for undisputed power. To your people, the whole purpose of a spear is to use its power to - to _break_ the wholeness of another.”

“ _You_ lust for power,” said Link cautiously, his tongue dry.

“True,” he rumbled, fitting his massive hands around Link’s waist. “Are you afraid of me, little hero?”

Link considered it, prodding at the shivery tightness, the dizziness, the confusion. “Maybe. I have been before. And I have _not_ been, before. Being in _this_ way seems new, and strange.”

Gan said nothing. His hands rested idle at his waist. Warm, enveloping, strong. His touch seemed firm but gentle at the same time - it didn’t feel like he was bracing to stop an escape, but more like a support, somehow. An offer of a balance point if he chose to lean back. A variant on the first butterfly pattern he demonstrated. 

“Did I - hurt you? Being in your mouth like that?”

Gan snorted in derision. “Do you wish you had?”

“ _Not at all,”_ cried Link in horror, rocking back to meet his gaze. “How would that _ever_ be nice?”

Gan snorted again, his golden eyes bright. He offered a wry grin, stroking a hand up to the small of his back. “There’s many _kinds_ of pain, little hero. Not all of them are bad. But no, sucking a treat from your pretty little cock most certainly did _not_ hurt.”

“Good,” said Link weakly. “Because it felt _really good_ , and I don’t - I’m not good with words. Maybe some Hylians _are_ like you say, but it would be _bad_ to have pleasure in things that hurt in a way you didn’t like. The best parts were when - you made the good noises. Or that I _thought_ were good noises.”

Gan smirked, and licked his lips in a way that made him shiver. “They were.” 

“Gan-?” Link whispered. _You’re right. I am afraid. But not the way you think._ “If I tried kissing you like that, would you sing? I think - even if I don’t like the kissing, I _know_ I would like to hear you sing.”

“With the timespell ward in place? _Maybe_ ,” rumbled Gan, squeezing his waist lightly. “ _If_ you’re good.”

“ _Oh_ ,” breathed Link, his skin flooding with hot and cold at the same time. “Now I _really_ want to be good-!”

Gan humored him with helping to move the blankets, and though it was too cold for being comfortable naked, he stripped to the skin and made pillows of their clothing. Gan lounged against the boulder and the makeshift cushions with one knee raised halfway, his thighs parted enough to make room for him to sprawl between.

Link touched the scars on his strong thighs, prodding at the mangled pleasure and pain of it. Every subtle ridge hurt, but his skin felt good under fingertip, under lips, under tongue. He tasted of salt and spice. 

Link explored the body of his enemy, touching and tasting almost everything _but_ his final object. It was hard, being close to his frighteningly massive cock, breathing his spicy musk, feeling the echo of his throbbing. Harder still that he was _forbidden_ to touch or taste it yet. 

Gan said it was important. Said that he needed to meditate on his curiosity. Said he needed to learn to read the land, and laughed at his confusion. He watched Link touch him, his golden eyes bright and unreadable. The torchlight made him look strange and exotic and _powerful_ , kingly somehow, though he lounged in the wilderness naked except for his jewels. 

“Can I try _now_?” Link murmured into the soft, short curls near the join of his thigh and trunk.

Gan’s cock pulsed and twitched. Yet once again his dark voice rumbled. “Not yet. Draw your tongue up the inguinal valley.” 

Link whined, but obeyed, licking the long furrow Gan showed him. Salt seemed to gather there, and the balance of soft and firm in the texture of his skin - it was too much. He made it only a little more than halfway before he _needed_ to fit his teeth around the ledge of flesh above the valley. 

Gan drew a hissing breath. “Hungry little wolf.”

Link mock-growled at him, a little hurt by his teasing.

Gan’s breath caught and his heavy cock lifted from its rest, the ruddy head drawn tight and shiny.

Link watched it throb. He hitched himself a little higher and bit at another oblique ridge, repeating the mock-growl.

“Hnn,” said Gan, one brow rising in a sharp arch. “Cannibal.”

“Not if I’m a wolf,” teased Link, licking the places he’d bitten, briefly concerned by the little reddened divots. Malon hadn’t liked him to bite at first, and hated when he left marks that would show outside her clothes. Gan though - he made soft little noises almost every time, as if each nibbling bite continued to surprise him. 

Gan flexed his hand against one of the makeshift cushions, stretching his fingers and rolling his wrist. “Iliac crest.”

Link sighed, shifting to luck the hard vertical ridge, proving he remembered the landmark. Gan grunted faint approval. It annoyed him. So he set his teeth gently over the ridge, pretending to gnaw on the bone beneath.

“ _Hnn_ ,” groaned Gan, and his thigh trembled.

Link let him go and kissed the bite on both sides. “Now?”

“Quadriceps,” rumbled Gan instead, but his breath seemed shorter.

Link kissed his thigh again. And bit. And licked. Left and right. Exploring the contrast of texture between relaxed muscles and tensed. Sneaking ever closer to his goal. He flicked his tongue across his taut, hairless sack as he changed from one to the other, pretending it was an accident.

Gan cursed him. 

Link tried it again, a lingering, dragging lick right across the silky mound of it.

Gan huffed in offense.

Link kissed the tender swell on one side. He wondered how Gan banished the hair he didn’t like to keep. If it hurt. If he should do the same.

“Brat,” grumbled Gan.

“Lemme taste it then,” countered Link. “How am I supposed to learn if I like kissing you if you won’t let me?”

Gan tipped his head in that charming, hawklike study. “How did you learn to like the taste of oases?”

“A fairy put my face between her thighs,” said Link with a shrug. 

“That is - not what I asked. How did _you_ learn to _like_ it?”

“I dunno. I just - did. Her ladyflowers were wet and soft, and I figured she wanted a kiss, so I tried to. She made nice noises when I moved, so I kept trying, and her honey was sweet, so I put my tongue out to taste more and - I dunno. I didn’t _learn_ anything. I just _liked_ it.”

“And with a mortal avadha?”

“She smelled good, and I asked if she liked flower kisses. She didn’t know what it was, so I showed her. She tasted sweet too, and she made yummy noises, so I stuck my tongue inside to see if her flavor changed like fairies do, and she rubbed her soft places on my face, and - well. It was good.”

“Hn,” said Gan. His eyes slid closed, and his thighs tensed rock-hard. “Nnno. You _definitely_ have a taste for oases. The - technical matters are - similar in one sense but - no.”

“No what? Why not? Don’t _you_ like both? Why can’t I?”

“Not what I meant,” mumbled Gan, opening his eyes ever so little. “Lesser sartorius.”

Link frowned. “I just did that one. You’re trying to play a trick.”

“Am not.”

Link growled.

“Sartorius, little wolf.”

Link rocked forward and flicked his tongue up his shaft out of spite. 

Gan’s eyes snapped wide open. 

Link licked him again. Slower. Holding his gaze. 

“I didn’t say you could-”

“You said that not a kiss,” countered Link, sing-song. He tried to think of something clever to make him laugh, but he kept getting distracted by the throb of his cock, and the shining droplet clinging to his ruddy tip that didn’t drip when he expected it to. “Does the clear stuff taste different?”

Gan nodded. Curt. Cold.

“I want it,” said Link’s tongue without asking his opinion first.

“Gentle,” murmured Gan. “Make those sweet lips as delicate as dandelion down or it will fall.”

Link hummed in concentration, scrunching himself closer, higher, planning his approach. Gan’s cock would _not_ be still for him. Would _not_ dance in any regular pattern. 

Link huffed in frustration and grabbed the base of his shaft, descending at the same moment to steal the intriguing droplet. 

Subtle. Sweet. Sublime as spicebean syrup.

“Oh,” said Link. He stroked his tongue over his hot silken tip, licking up any lingering traces. “How do I get more?”

“ _Hah_ ,” said Gan, half laugh, half groan, half breath. “That sort of honey is but a fickle herald.”

“Oh,” said Link, disappointed. “You’re warm.”

“Well I should hope so,” rumbled Gan with another breathy laugh.

“Not too tight?”

“Hn?”

“My hand. So I don’t have to chase you for kisses.”

“Oh,” said Gan. His breaths drew shorter. “A little harder, actually. And… paint a circle. No - a _spiral_. From the very top to the - the ridge. Slowly.”

Link obeyed. 

It was good.

Link kissed and licked and sucked his burning crown and silky-tight shaft. Gan even asked him to drag his teeth softly over his skin, to nip at the sheath, to grab his shaft from the side and growl again. 

He liked the soft little game of wolf and mate.

Link earned a few more honey jewels, each larger than the last. Every time Gan sighed or moaned or caught his breath sharply, a shiver of pleasure moved through him. He tried to fit his whole mouth around Gan’s cock as Gan had done to him, but to his shame, he could barely cradle the ripe crown in his lips. It felt nice to do, until his jaw spasmed. He tried to pretend it didn’t, but Gan knew, and made him stop.

Gan said sometimes practice would help him open more, but he also said it was unlikely he would ever be able to give him the same pleasures. He said he was simply too big, and he shrugged like it didn’t matter. 

_Not that_ **_I_ ** _am too small - he finds fault with_ **_himself_ ** _for existing in the body he was given. I never thought I would hear him admit any fault at all - but it echoes somehow, in the shards._

_He doesn’t like what he is._

_He is unhappy._

_Deeply unhappy._

_He hides it from the whole world - for ten minutes I was able to kiss him well enough he cried out like a woman would when she floods. But it doesn’t last, that kind of joy_. 

Link sighed to himself, snuggling deeper in Gan’s arms. His tongue tasted funny still, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about the sticky, creamy cum at the end. It startled him, and he didn’t catch all of it on his tongue, so it was very messy. Heat _definitely_ changed the texture, and Gan had a bitter edge to his sweetness, like a bloodlime.

_But oh-! The way he trembled and sang for me! Worth it._

“I don’t understand why people would say that kind of sex-kisses _must_ be _taken_ ,” said Link with a yawn that made his jaw twinge again. “Even with your hand in my hair it didn’t feel like that. Or not in a bad way. Ugh. Words are dumb.”

Gan laughed at him, soft and rumbly. He pulled him even closer under the blankets - which were very much needed in the deepening cold. 

“I’m serious,” whined Link. “All I had to do was lick you a little different and _I_ made _you_ make fun noises. How is that _not_ power? I felt a _lot_ more helpless in _your_ mouth than with you in mine.”

“Link,” sighed Gan. “You are an absolute _disaster_ of a hero.”

Link sighed.

Gan petted his hair. “So. Seems you like _kissing thorns_ after all.”

“Or maybe I just like yours,” said Link with a shrug. “Except for the jaw thing, and the sting in my nose when we made a mess thing. And - the being horny again thing.”

Gan _laughed_.


	10. Endurance - 4 of 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adventure-!  
> Dark adventure!  
> Magic! Romance!

On the twenty-second day, they stopped at a ruined farmhouse near the Thundering River, or the Divine Maiden River, depending on who was talking about it. Gan insisted they glean every possible fruit from the orchard, and every scrap of grain from the fields. He said they were not even halfway yet.

Link had never measured the distance between Hyrule Castle and the wall of black wind in the Sand Sea, or at least he couldn’t remember doing it. He didn’t like the thought of so many more days on the road. He didn’t like the measure of running to not-running in this life being twenty to one. 

He _really_ didn’t like how with every day wearing the mask he felt more numb and more violent and quicker to anger. Gan had noticed. They stopped camping in mortal time at all, and added a midday rest in the timespell also. 

Link asked if the estates he remembered in the Gerudo highlands existed in this life. 

Gan said they did. 

He _also_ said stopping for provisions at any of them would make them a target unless he hurt people in a way TwinRova could see.

Link did not ask about settlements or mines or forts. 

He did not ask how many would have to suffer. 

He did not ask how Gan knew. 

He held his tongue, and he held his once-enemy, and he stole time from the gods so they could weave even a small happiness at the edges of an uncertain fate.

On the thirty-first day, Zharu stumbled. They stopped immediately, but neither of them could find a cause. She simply could not or would not use her left forehoof. 

Link walked beside her the rest of the way to the nearest oasis. Small, desolate, its protective arches broken and sand-scoured as the ruins two bowshots away. Gan cursed and grumbled, riding ahead to search the ruins, returning to walk Asifad beside him and curse more. 

Link worried.

They raised the timebubble around the oasis for seventy-two body-hours. It was not enough. Zharu remained lame.

Gan said they would be forced to raid for food now, or eat Zharu.

Link begged him not to. 

“Sentiment is weakness and death,” sneered Gan. “And _you_ , typical of Hylians, would choose the life of a horse over the lives of my sisters.”

“ _No_ ,” cried Link, winding his fists in Gan’s black shirt. “There _must_ be another way. Let me try the soaring-song. Maybe I can bring food from a city.”

“The look-away spell will not travel through void. The entire gambit will be for nothing.”

“Let me hunt then,” begged Link.

“There is little to hunt. Lizards. Sand shrews. Cactus wrens. Any wolfos out here will be starving and likely sick. There _might_ be twisthorn in the cliffs, but it is a slim chance, and we would need three to make the climb worth it.”

“Then I will hunt every small thing and cut every cactus and wintermelon and safflina for miles. I’ve _seen_ you with the horses. It will kill you to do it,” cried Link. 

Gan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We have little choice.”

“There is _always_ a choice. You have visited clan estates and tribal villages before, and let them live. Why would it be different now?”

“Forty days remain,” said Gan softly. “If they are to believe I return to complete the Rites, they _must_ see the ruthless Demon King they expect to see.”

“One more day. Please Gan - wait one more day. I will think of something. There must be _something_ ,” said Link. He tore himself away, pacing the dry stones well above the water level. “Can I give you my magic?”

“Link. I do not even _begin_ to know how your magic works. For all I know the attempt would kill you,” groaned Gan, pressing his back to a dying palm tree and sinking to the ground in a boneless sprawl.

Link paced and growled and wrestled with the puzzle.

“Is there an estate near here with women you know? Women you have sex with? Or who might like to?”

Gan frowned at him. “Maybe.”

“You are magic. You make things look like other things. Can you make it _look_ like you did _bad things_ to them?”

“Uh,” said Gan, blinking in confusion. “It would - have to be you. Not me. With the mask and illusion. I can siphon and disguise my position, but I can’t siphon _and_ fuck properly - much less ride a festival tide - _and_ continue to disguise _your_ very existence. I do have limits.”

“Ok, you said passions raise magic. If I go there, and pretend to be you with them, and offer them kisses and fucking, can you take magic from it? Can you make the fucking _look_ like I’m doing _bad_ _things_ from the outside? So TwinRova won’t think they can hurt you by hurting them?”

Gan stared at him.

“ _Well?_ Can you? I swear I will _happily_ kiss every ladyflower in the desert until my tongue falls off if it will keep us from losing you to the darkness.”

“Come here little hero,” rumbled Gan. He pulled Link into his lap as soon as he was in reach, cradling him so tight to his chest Link could barely breathe.

“ _I mean it_ ,” rasped Link.

“I know,” said Gan. “And there is something _deeply_ wrong inside you to be _eager_ to sacrifice so much with so little reward. To fight so hard to buy a few more miserable days for a monster.”

“You’re not a monster,” whispered Link. “I love you.”

Gan laughed. Different this time. Grinning and chuckling deep in his chest, stroking his warm, strong hands through Link’s hair and down his back. 

Yet his eyes were too bright, and the dark kohl lining his eyes dripped and spread into the delicate creases at the corners. 

He offered no more words. 

He offered his lips instead. Lips and hands and the heat of his skin, laying Link on his back in the crumbling oasis to kiss his face and neck and chest - and fall asleep with his ear resting over Link’s heart. 

On the thirty-sixth day, Gan gathered enough bones from the ruins to build himself a stalhorse. He draped blankets over it like barding, and strapped Zharu’s saddle to its back. Zharu herself would follow them to the Davayu estate, and live the rest of her days in the gardens there - howsoever long or short that might be. 

“That _thing_ is really creepy,” said Link. Purple and red witchfire burned in its empty eyesockets, and even worse than the clacking bones was the high-pitched cries it uttered. 

“Don’t care,” said Gan lightly, climbing into the saddle at sunset as if riding an undead horse was the most normal thing in the world. “We travel at night from this moment. And you, little hero, had best prepare yourself to have your brains fucked right out of you. Varesh is going to _adore_ your cute little thorn.”

“You know - I don’t think I’ve had sex in this body before. It doesn’t get tired the same way. So. It _might_ be _her_ with scrambled brains in the end,” said Link, bracing himself to put the fierce deity’s mask on.

Ganondorf laughed.


	11. Skill - 1 of 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flowery smut and poetic violence, that's us.

Sand and wind and the steady rattle-thud of enchanted bones carried them ever westward into the Sand Sea, following roads of stars and spirit. 

Fifty-six days racing toward The End.

Whatever the end might be. With his life or without it, with his mind or without it, with his people or without them, with the world on fire or spinning on oblivious. The end was not coming for them - Ganondorf was hunting it.

For fifty six days with Link at his side.

When the stalhorse weakened under the dawnlight, they stopped. Rations remained short, though they struck two more estates on the push west. They did not go as smoothly as the first. 

_Still, it could have been worse._

**_Would_ ** _have been worse, without him._

Link didn’t seem to notice his attention - but with every passing day he seemed more distant. Within the timebubble it wasn’t so bad, but they couldn’t afford to linger more than absolutely necessary. World-hours might be leashed, but body-hours still demanded food.

The horizon ahead darkened. Link raised his trishul. He saw it too, and he knew what it meant. He gestured south with the wicked blades, catching the light of the egg moon on steel. Ganondorf followed him through the wide pivot. Stalhorse did not tire, but they simply could not match the speed of living mounts.

When Link turned Asifad again, the dark stallion fought him. He was exhausted and his ribs showed through his hide even in the moonlight. If he survived the crossing, it would be a miracle. Link did not seem to notice or care that his borrowed mount approached his limit. He pulled the beast around in a tight circuit, searching the featureless sands for something. He glanced up at the night sky, and sighted on the starless darkness veiling the western horizon. He drew an incendiary from his saddlebags and dropped it on the ground, watching it roll. He dropped a second, slightly forward of the first. When it came to rest, he kicked Asifad into a trot again and cocked his shoulder high, holding the trishul like a javelin. 

Ganondorf hauled the stalhorse around and demanded a hard sprint _away_. Direction didn’t matter. Only speed. 

It was just barely enough.

The blast threw sand a dozen yards in every direction, revealing a thin limestone shelf, with a crack just large enough for the nest of rock squirrels to reach the groundwater hidden below. Link dismounted, trudging over the sand to collect the carcasses - and wedge another handful of explosives into favorable positions along the crack.

Ganondorf slouched in the saddle and watched from a safe distance. It wasn’t nadir, but even he didn’t know of a better site forward of their position. He would have simply camped on the open sands as they had most of the last week, but the shade _would_ be nice.

_It could be our last._

Asifad decided after the second blast he was not interested in standing alone. For lack of a true herd, he circled around to stand by his master and the undead creature he rode. Link ignored it, continuing to sculpt the very ground to his design, opening the hidden seep and constructing a crude sort of ramp into it with the rubble. Nor was that enough - he paced over the sands and chose another place to blast open, some twenty yards from the opening. This, he did not widen, but he used his bright shield to dig the loose sand away from the scorched blast crater.

When he was finally satisfied, he raised the trishul in salute and thrust it blade-first into the sands. He pulled the oryx-horn skull helm from his fair head, settling it on the butt of the weapon, secured by a scavenged saddle-string through the ear-vents and wound about the shaft.

Ganondorf dismantled the stalhorse at the mouth of the grotto his champion made for him, heaping the enchanted bones around the trishul so the various magics would guard each other. Persuading the tired young stallion down the rubble slope was more challenging - in the end, he had to spend a few grains of magic to push sand over the whole mess to get the anxious beast to level ground out of the fierce wind.

Link busied himself at the back of the grotto. He was good at that, anticipating what needed done. He foraged for dead ocotillo and silverleaf and ironroot as they travelled, bundling it behind his saddle for fuel whenever they could afford a full camp. He gleaned spicebeans and wintermelons and voltfruit whenever they saw one, and often uncovered burrows of rock squirrels or snake eggs or nests of cactus wrens to keep them in meat, howsoever little that might be. He took care of the butchering and the cleaning every time, and rarely asked for help.

Ganondorf took the burden of rubbing Asifad down and ensuring none of his small ration of grain and thin forage would be wasted. He debated the virtues of leaving the poor thing at the grotto and crossing the black wind on foot. It would eat an extra two days, but they didn’t really have four days worth left for both themselves and the horse.

The smoke vented cleanly, and the grotto surprised him with a bounty of mushrooms and wintermelons thriving at the very back of the cave, beyond the deep limestone bowl Link had built their fire beside. 

Ganondorf did not wait for the timebubble to strip off his boots and whatever armor he could manage. Despite the season, the limestone depression held a tiny pool of bright water - likely too heavy with calcium and lime to drink, but he had _every_ intention of harvesting enough to wash a _little_ of the sand off. 

Link laughed at him, leaving the stew to simmer while he helped strip him to the skin. His warmth against Ganondorf’s back, his hands circling his waist, clutching at his chest _did_ feel tempting. It was rare to be with anyone who could wrap their arms around him completely - _but Link isn’t really capable either. It is only the divine mask._

_And the illusion of me._

Link ignored his ambivalence, and pressed again for kisses, still without having raised the timebubble - and therefore, without having removed the fierce mask.

“Lech. I thought you said it muted feeling,” he grumbled, shrugging his hands off yet again.

“ **It does. But it also makes me strong. I could do more for you** ,” said Link, in what passed for a whisper in the skin of a god.

“Maybe I don’t _want_ more,” grumbled Ganondorf, fumbling the ties of his arming coat. _I am so tired. Just four, five more days. So tired. I can rest later. There will be all the rest in the world soon enough._

“ **You always want more,** ” countered Link. “ **Practice has not been enough to do for you what you do for me - but this face - you are not so big if I am also big.** ”

Ganondorf winced. “Now is not the time. We are filthy.”

“ **I do not mind.** ”

“Maybe _I_ do,” snapped Ganondorf, pulling out of his arms at last. _How can Link think it wouldn’t matter that my cock is disgusting with sweat and sand? Does he really not see the pattern can only be danced at oases? How much of his mind_ **_wasn’t_ ** _revived with his body?_

“ **I can fix that,** ” said Link, sing-song and terrible.

Ganondorf turned, frowning as he struggled with the last ties on his sleeves. Link was toying with the bluestone ocarina, his featureless white eyes bright, his perfect lips pulled into the faintest hint of a kouri grin.

Link did not wait for him to answer - he lifted the flute and poured forth a nauseating song - all of his spell-songs unsettled his stomach and seeded headaches. Thunder cracked somewhere overhead - a rumble and roar - and with another crack the night sky tore open, dumping sheeting rain down the vented grotto roof.

“Oh for _fuck’s_ sake - give away our position? Unravel every misdirection I’ve woven? Even the first lord of storms couldn’t do _that_ ,” snarled Ganondorf when the song finished.

“ **You cannot be sure he did not gain his name from weaving the stormsong in the beginning** ,” countered Link, returning the ocarina to its place on his belt. He carried it in a soft pouch now, instead of letting it hang loose on its golden chain. Mostly because he’d noticed Ganondorf didn’t like to see it. “ **It will last three hours. It will fill the oasis - I will put some firerocks in for you. Come, eat meanwhile.** ”

Ganondorf cursed him. “There is still the small problem of casting a spell they know isn’t mine.”

“ **They cannot know anything. When I sing, it has always been raining, or it has never been raining. There is no beginning, no ending. I dance the sun. I know this. Trust me** ,” said Link, baring too-sharp teeth.

Ganondorf groaned, and cursed, and surrendered. 

It was too late to do anything else anyway.

Ganondorf leaned against sun-warmed stone, soaking in blessedly hot water deep enough and broad enough he could sink his entire self in it and only _barely_ touch the walls. He closed his eyes to the dazzling sunlight from the vent above - and to the unsettling reflection of himself bathing at the edge of the pool. Except for the woad and carmine markings, and the divine white eyes, his image was perfect. Right down to the scars.

_I wove this too well._ Ganondorf closed his eyes, and tried to pretend none of it was happening. Except the bath. That part was good. 

When Link was finished with his own ablutions, and came to tend him as a bodyworker or bath servant might, that was also good. The hands in his hair, caressing. The hands on his shoulders, working on the terrible knotted mess of too much tension gathered there. The hands spanning the small of his back, warm and clever, finding every sore place in need of his soothing pressure.

“ **All clean-?** ” Link murmured in his ear.

Ganondorf suppressed a shiver. “You should put your clothes back on so you can take the mask off.”

“ **They are wet. We should let them dry first** ,” said Link.

“And whose fault is that? Go on, the bubble is up, this form is washed, you’re done. You probably could use the bath in your own skin while it’s still hot.”

“ **Kiss,** ” said Link, leaning over his shoulder.

“No.”

“ **_Other_ ** **kiss-?** ” Link slid a hand down his chest slowly, leaving no doubt of his meaning. He probably thought he was being gentle. Not that it was unpleasant - his touch was deep and firm, but possessive and demanding rather than soft and enticing.

“No.”

“ **Why? I want to hear you sing.** ”

Ganondorf winced, slitting his eyes open, forcing himself to consider the terrible enchanted face of the ancient warrior as Link slid back into the pool beside him. It would have been bad enough enduring the stare of a bone-white god of war, but a cold and cruel reflection of himself was worse. “I can’t look at you in that way - with you like this.”

Link tipped his head in curiosity, though his expression remained cold. Always cold. “ **Like you?** ”

Ganondorf nodded, averting his gaze again.

“ **But you are handsome.** ”

Ganondorf winced. _Stop flattering me with lies._

Link touched his chest, fingertip brushing his skin in the odd little whorl pattern he drew when he wanted permission for more. “ **What if you don’t have to** **_look_ ** **?** ”

“I will still know, and you will still feel - wrong.”

“ **Are you sure-?** ” Link eased closer, reaching up to screen his eyes - not yet touching, but almost. “ **I am strong. I am big like you. Make-pretend I am - just desert-born, like you.** ”

“Why do you want this? You cannot feel,” said Ganondorf, stalling for time, for a better excuse, for an escape from those merciless white eyes in his own stone-sharp face. 

“ **I can still hear you sing,** ” countered Link, curving his hands to cover his eyes gently. He leaned in so his lips brushed Ganondorf’s as he spoke, his terrible voice trembling through flesh and bone. “ **I have filled your mouth, but my mouth is not enough to hold you. With this face perhaps I can. I have wanted in** **_my_ ** **skin to know it as you do. I have wanted to return your pleasure-gifts. You say this will change in time - but we do not have so much, even with the songs. That body will not obey yet.** ”

“ _May_ change, not _will_. It is what it is. I told you - I am satisfied with the kisses you have given. Let it go.”

Link closed the last tiny distance between them, pressing their lips together. There was little passion in it - just the brief silken pressure, and the idea of the thing. “ **_Satisfied_ ** **is not** **_happy_ ** **.** ”

“Your desire is treasure enough for now, little hero. I don’t think I can - its six years since I have worn a true blind, ok? Go take the mask off. Then maybe we dance,” rumbled Ganondorf, desperately trying to ignore the heat pressing against his thigh. _Can’t feel, can get hard. Fabulous._

“ **Six years since you trusted someone to take care of you,** ” said Link, slipping his hands off his eyes to cup his jaw instead. “ **Six years is too long, my love. How have I failed you in this life that you fear me?** ”

“You haven’t,” confessed Ganondorf with a sigh. Another dangerous habit, so much open sentiment. The timebubble lured him into so many risks. But if _they_ could defeat the ward now, then it was already far too late for caution. “I am king. It’s nothing you did or didn’t do. When I played those bedgames for a petitioner, I wove illusions for _them_ so I could fulfill their desire. Even in pleasurable patterns I _need_ to remain in control. For _me_. _”_

“ **The sash you wear. It is thin. If you try, you can peek through. I will tie it loose, so you can take it off when you need to** ,” said Link, drawing tiny whorls on his cheek with his thumb. His expression remained closed and inscrutable as always in this form, but he seemed as intent on his intimate goal as ever he did in a fight. “ **No chains. Only a little veil, to help you make-pretend.** ”

“Are you truly so hungry to choke on a demon’s cock?” Ganondorf scoffed, trying vainly to turn away.

Link held him fast. “ **You are** **_not_ ** **a demon. I will not let Him take you away. Let me help you forget for a few body-hours. If this mouth is not good, we can stop.** ”

Ganondorf heaved a sigh, brushing his hands off to rub at the bridge of his nose. He ached down to his bones in a way the hot water would never wash clean. “Drag the larger saddle beside the bed and drape it with my cloak, and I will teach you a new pattern.”

Link offered a kouri smile, and a small kiss. Better than the last.

Ganondorf tried to squash the flicker of hope.

It didn’t work.


	12. Skill - 2 of 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flowery smut and poetic violence, that's us.
> 
> ETA: holy smokes this scene went for a while...

Ganondorf knelt naked beside the saddle, toying with the saddlestrings. Link had faithfully arranged everything exactly as ordered. He’d practiced the little pattern, tested how to fit his shoulders between the high cantle and horned pommel of the war saddle with as much comfort as would ever be possible in his current form. He’d slipped back into his damp trousers and boots, moving the bundle of shirt and armor close to hand. He said he wanted to be able to shift to his own form in as little time as possible.

Ganondorf stretched and resettled in a modified upright frog pattern. He prodded at the worry that the man would shift back while he wore the blind. It would be all too easy to harm him with a single incautious movement. Even in the body of a god, he could not be sure his thorn would not prove too much, would not tear him inside. 

Link said there was truly only one way to know.

Ganondorf hated that he was right.

“ **Ready?** ”

“No,” said Ganondorf, gesturing for him to come closer.

Link stood behind him, caressing his short hair.

“Remember not to heed apparent objections, little hero. Only the word.”

“ **You promise you will say it, if it is bad? You will not be too proud?** ”

“I swear it,” said Ganondorf, swallowing hard.

“ **Then your sight belongs to me, desert king.** ” Link stretched the sash across his eyes, winding it around to secure the swiftknot Ganondorf taught him.

Ganondorf forced himself to breathe evenly. Forced down the twinge of panic as the cloth touched his eyelids. When the knot was secure and Link petted his hair again, he opened his eyes, peering through the evenweave. Link was right - he could not see much, mostly patterns of light and shadow, pinprick washes of color, movement. It was enough to be able to mark the sunlight on the still water, the rough gray stone, the carmine and gold of his cloak over the warsaddle, waiting for an ancient hero to drape himself over it. He would not be able to see details. _Maybe Link is right. Maybe I will be able to persuade myself Link is merely some saucy warrior, for the moment amused by the idea of cradling her king inside her throat._

Link bowed over his shoulder to tug the tail end of the saddlestring loosely twisted over the back of his hand and threaded through his fist. “ **Your skin belongs to me, desert king.** ”

Ganondorf grunted, lifting his chin. The illusion of binding was so thin it could not _possibly_ work. He had himself twisted the thin leather against his skin, without cinch or knot. All he had to do was open his fists, and the minimal restraint would fall away.

Link slid his other hand down Ganondorf’s neck. “ **Your voice will soon belong to me, desert king.** ”

“Don’t count on it,” rumbled Ganondorf.

Link laughed, pulling his hands away.

Ganondorf closed his eyes, tentatively embracing the blind. Resisting the temptation to stretch his spirit to feel the man circle around to the far side of the saddle. To check the significance under the soft thump and susseruss teasing his ears. To assure himself the creak of leather and wood before him was from the pattern he’d shown the man, and not some trick.

Fingertips brushed the side of his heavy cock. Warm. Ticklish. 

“ **Soft** ,” said Link from below him. He cupped his hand under Ganondorf’s sack, as if testing the weight. “ **Do you think you will escape me if you do not rise?** ”

Ganondorf pulled his lip between his teeth, debating the pattern. _I could reprise the simple disinterest, thus challenging him to tempt me out. But - the allusion to fear, the pretense of bondage - it could help. The same pattern has freed many petitioners to enjoy desires which would otherwise be hindered by pain or fear or shame - it worked long ago - but I haven’t tried since - oh do_ **_not_ ** _think of her. If the pattern sours, it could cast me into a violent frenzy of panic and rage that was never his fault. You know better, you fool._ “I will not surrender.”

“ **Oh?** ” Link stroked his hand along tender flesh, tracing the orchid root to the vulnerable softness where an oasis might flower for a more fortunate soul. Few lovers were brave enough or sensitive enough to caress him there - Link had learned all too quickly how to use it and the lightest tease of the rose gates to manipulate shameful moans from him. 

Ganondorf bit his lip and struggled against the impulse. His flesh twitched and throbbed. Silken heat and wet teased the thin veil of fragile flesh guarding his crown. _Tongue. Lips. Kisses. Oh-! Suckling-! Like I am some honeyglass confection - oh Link you are cruel!_

“ **So soft** ,” said Link again, his fierce voice trembling flesh. “ **I feel your heat, foolish king. Your blood** **_will_ ** **rise for me.** ”

“Gods cannot feel,” rumbled Ganondorf, clenching the saddlestrings in his fist. Link answered with his tongue sliding along the underside of the veil - _too delicate and too deep for him to be prone over the saddle. Good - he must be draped supine as I showed him._

As if he could hear the thought, Link’s tortuously long tongue arced and cupped, proving the reverse as he cradled Ganondorf’s soft cock on his tongue. 

_And you accuse_ **_me_ ** _of pride-!_

A single breath, a creak of leather - he rocked forward to set his burning mouth around tender flesh. Not all of him - half - but he was sliding back, drooling on him.

“I will _not_ ,” growled Ganondorf, bracing himself against the shivery thrill.

It didn’t work.

Link smacked his lips and descended again, stuffing his mouth full again. This time nearly to the hilt. The intense pressure of his delicate sex confined so severely made him gasp - and perversely, throb all the harder. 

_I will not be soft much longer, little hero! Be careful._

Leather creaked. Link’s hand stroked him underneath, as if coaxing him deeper - but there _was_ no deeper. Tongue and soft palate and teeth and - a throb, and Link’s tongue dropped, reducing the pressure against his crown and upper third of his shaft. Another throb and he _knew_ his length increased. He was familiar with the sensation himself, the fragile line between the thrill of a thorn quickening inside him in the only way it was possible for him to know it, and provoking his flesh to reject the offering.

“No, oh no,” he groaned, trying to scrape together his wits for a proper warning.

Link spoiled his efforts, drawing back to suckle at him again. Torment - and not a gentle sort. He pulled at his treat with an urgent kind of force, no doubt because under the mask he could not grasp the truly subtle.

 _Unfortunate but - oh, I know it is only illusion - I know it is. But if only it could be true - if only he did want me so impatiently as he makes it seem-!_ Ganondorf cracked his eyes open, squinting through the cloth at the wash of black and brown and red below him - Link, on his stomach across the saddle, his boots raised behind him in idle fidgets, sucking his stiffening cock ever larger. He seemed intent on his task. He set a looping rhythm against the orchid root, a beckoning, taunting curl massaging taut tendons and sensitive squish exactly as Ganondorf had taught him how to leverage in his own fragile skin. _Maybe - he_ **_does_ ** _enjoy service enough to make up for his inability to know physical pleasure in divine form?_

Pressure increased again - Link squirmed and wriggled his hips like a rockcat upon her prey - but it did not change. He had discovered his limit. He struggled to twist and adjust himself to pull Ganondorf deeper, and every touch made him longer, thicker, stiffer. His crown was caught at the back of Link’s throat, pressing the soft palate up in a way that should have been painful - and he was barely halfway hard. 

Ganondorf sighed. Softly. Nonetheless, he couldn’t help the little wave of disappointment. As much as he feared it would be too much for the man, a part of him had secretly hoped the theory would bear out.

Link drew back, coughing a little. He caressed his sodden cock, pressing a kiss upon the retreating veil. “ **You see? I will always win.** ”

“Haven’t won yet,” Ganondorf grunted. He closed his eyes and flexed his hands.

Link said nothing - he pulled his hands away. Leather creaked. He sighed. He dragged his fingers down the front of his thigh. A smooth and ticklish tease brushed against his tip. Another. Another - hotter, wetter. Link clawed at his thigh, pulling him forward. His tongue slid over the top of his crown this time - and then he was surrounded by heat. The taunting sharpness of his teeth grazed his shaft to either side. His tongue slipped higher - the heat rose.

“Oh no,” groaned Ganondorf, tugging on the saddlestrings.

Link seemed to chuckle. His hands dug and demanded, urging him to rock forward, to offer more of himself into the supine man’s waiting mouth. This time the pressure did not close around him. He slid easily - too easily - over tongue and to the edge of his throat in one smooth motion, all the way to his middle.

Then more.

And _more_.

He wasn’t at full potential yet. One more little wriggle into the man’s throat buried him _almost_ to the hilt.

Ganondorf let his head loll back as the sensation scrambled his wits. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t full yet. He hadn’t been able to sink so much of himself into _any_ lover since early spring. It was glorious.

And then it was over.

Link was pushing him away, was gasping for air as he pulled free of his drooling lips.

Ganondorf sighed and loosened his grip on the right saddlestring, preparing to unwind himself. Preparing to stroke away the interrupted tension.

Link shifted his hands. Resting fingertips on his right hip. With his left, he grasped the top of his base fiercely.

Ganondorf cried out in shock and unexpected pain.

“ **Mine** ,” growled Link, dragging him down by his cock, back into his mouth.

The fierce tension around his base made the slick hot welcome of his hungry mouth all the more intense. Ganondorf moaned, his knees slipping a little wider, his hips dropping a little more as Link pulled him deep once more.

As soon as his hand relaxed even a little, Ganondorf pulled back. Link let him - halfway. 

“ _Gentle_ \- oh _Link_ \- easy, go easy,” begged Ganondorf as he pulled him even deeper than before. The throbbing began to hurt, held back by the tension of Link’s hand. It was a good kind of hurt - a _rare_ kind of hurt - a hurt that made him long to be enveloped in comfortable, smooth heat from every side. A hurt that could lead his flesh to grow even thicker than usual.

The thought reminded him of the glory of a welcoming oasis, the bliss of plowing the sweet gardens of a woman who _wanted_ the intense fullness he could give her.

It didn’t help.

Ganondorf moaned, following the rhythm of tension, his thighs tight, his ass tight, his entire mind flooded with the sensation of hilting himself in the other man’s throat, mingled with visceral memories of the rare times he’d enjoyed similar delights with former lovers, in this pattern and in others. He tried to open his eyes again, tried to see through the veiling cloth, but all he could perceive was light and dark, dizzy speckled colors dancing on the other side of the linen. He dropped the left saddlestring, groping for Link’s hand. He thought for a moment to move it - to beg for gentleness. His hand didn’t obey him. It seemed to slide of its own will down Link’s arm, to his shoulder, to rest flat on his chest. Link’s skin seemed cool and dry, but his pulse hammered so hard Ganondorf could feel it in his fingertips. 

“Link, oh Link please-” he gasped, shivering with need.

Link released his grasp, folding both of his hands over his own, adjusting his position until his palm rested over his heart.

Ganondorf tensed his thighs harder, rocking in place, rocking in the depths of his throat. 

Link seemed to nod.

Ganondorf couldn’t remember how long since he’d let the man breathe. He pulled back.

Link slurped and sucked at him as he withdrew - and as soon as his wind was clear, filled his lungs mightily, twice. He taunted Ganondorf with his saucy tongue, beckoning him to return.

So return he did.

Smooth, slow.

He did something at the end - tight, hot, electric. 

Ganondorf panted for breath.

Link taunted him.

Ganondorf flexed his ass, seeking the thing - that _thing_ \- the perfect spot that would spark lightning in his spine. 

Link tormented him.

Ganondorf moaned and settled his balance lower as a dangerous wave of dizziness tickled his mind. He wasn’t ready to lose the heat. He curved his fingers into claws on the man’s firm chest, winding his other hand tighter in the saddlestring. It bit into his flesh, sharpening the pleasure. “Yess, just so, just so.”

Link tortured him.

Ganondorf tipped his head back, dragging air into his lungs for another desperate cry. He was doing - something. Tight. Sharp. Sinking needles into his hip and jaw as pleasure simmered in the cradle of his hips. His skin felt too tight. He felt the sands moving under him, the wind moving through him, the fire in his bones, the ice pricking his cock as Link pushed him away. 

“No, nono,” whined Ganondorf. 

Link laughed at him.

Nipped at his thigh.

Ganondorf whined, clawing at his chest again.

Link laughed again. Seemed to say something. Ganondorf couldn’t untangle his words - he was hot and cold, he was wet and tight and throbbing. He was slipping, he was going to fall. He clutched at Link, his ironvine in an arroyo, his shield, his champion, his, his, _his_.

“Oh Link don’t - _don’t_ -” cried Ganondorf, shivering in the cold. 

“Oh stop, _stop_ ,” cried Ganondorf, burning hot.

“Hnn _ohh_ no,” cried Ganondorf, trembling, stricken, lightning arcing through his bones.

Tight.

Too tight.

He needed more, he needed everything, he _needed_.

“ _Sa’deasa_ ,” cried Ganondorf, trembling, twitching, desperate. He scrambled for control, begged his bones to obey. “I can’t, _I can’t_ , sa’ikhusa - Link - oh _help_.”

Ice warring with fire. Sizzling cracking thrumming under his skin, his cock throbbing, his cock dripping in his hand, hot wind on his root as he came.


	13. Skill - 3 of 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flowery smut and poetic violence, that's us.
> 
> ETA :  
> This.  
> This right here is where the word count went from 'oh that's a bit longer than I thought' to 'holy fuck this has gone off the rails'.  
> It took two months to work through the denial ok.

Leather bit into his skin as he shuddered. Pain, but not pain. He clutched the tails of opposing saddlestrings, tightening the spiral around each wrist as his traitorous tongue loosed another shameful cry. 

“ **Good-?** ” Link said, and licked his sweaty back. Still rocking his hips in the same honey-slow taunt inside him. Still draped over him in full mount, pinning him to the warsaddle.

“Fffuckyou,” moaned Ganondorf. His thighs trembled with pleasure and exhaustion. The saddle creaked under him. His knees ached. Cum dripped from his aching cock, raw and burning from grinding unveiled against his woolen cloak. His throbbing ass flexed the rose gates tight, so tight, too tight, making Link seem impossibly enormous. _Then again, I_ **_do_ ** _have a more-or-less divine cock inside me._

“ **Your skin is mine,** ” said Link, his perfect lips ticklish. He shifted his embrace, sliding his hands from ribs to hip and back again. 

_If the saddle wasn’t in the way - he could tug my nipples - as he thrust - a full claim - inescapable - hot - tight - desired -_ “Oh _hero_ . How does a runt conquer the king? _Impossible_.”

Link smiled against his back and thrust his hips sharply forward, damp thighs striking in a vulgar _smack_. 

Ganondorf groaned in agony, seeing lurid purple and green stars in the darkness behind his eyes. “ _Ohhh_ no, whoa hero, whoa.”

Link rolled his hips instead. Dragged his hands down his sides, dug clawed fingers into his hips again.

Pleasure and pain. Lightning and fire.

_Much more and I - I can’t -_

Link ground his cock into the deep madness, bracing his strong hands on Ganondorf’s hips. Preparing to ride him again, as hard as before, rough and strong and needful.

“ _Unnf_ -! Whoa,” gasped Ganondorf, dropping the saddlestrings and struggling to claw the twists of leather from his arms. “ _Whoa_ hero, easy, easy. Shhh. Whoa.”

Link stopped at once, though his rigid cock still throbbed within. “ **You have not said the word.** ”

“No,” agreed Ganondorf, scrambling for wits and breath, both. He grasped the saddlehorns fiercely. “Not so bad as that - just be easy, ok? Whoa. It is - a lot. Gimme a rest so I can - carry you to the finish.” 

“ **It was not good** ,” said Link, levering himself more upright.

“Nono - hush. It’s just been a long time,” said Ganondorf hurriedly. 

“ **You have not taken pleasure,** ” said Link, his hands opening mechanically.

“Given there’s cum dripping down my thigh-? Yeah, no. _You’re_ the one who didn’t,” panted Ganondorf. “I just - need a minute. Back, hero. Slow, so slow, slower than you ente _auuughh_ -!”

“ **Stop-?** ”

“ _Nonono_ keep goin - you ha _augh_ \- have to now,” stammered Ganondorf, his eyes watering at the intensity of the electric tempest under his skin as Link pulled out. 

“ **I am not sure I can make seed in this body,** ” said Link as his corona caught against the inner gate.

“That part - I don’t care,” panted Ganondorf, lying through his teeth. “It’s if you - _sa’deasa ikhusa_ \- if you could feel enough to - _sa’surai_!”

“ **Hurt-?** ”

Ganondorf collapsed his weight against the saddle a moment, shivering in the aftermath, the final shocking absence, the twitchy emptiness. He lied again. “No.”

Link hummed in an odd way, and pulled back, their thighs peeling apart entirely for the first time in nearly half a body-hour.

“Just - gimme a minute,” mumbled Gan.

“ **You said this thrice,** ” said Link. “ **How do you desire I please you next, my love?** ”

Ganondorf shivered. _Don’t be a fool. No one says this in any truth. You know better._ “I - need to stretch. To rest. I am a _mortal_ king. And I - I - I need you to be you.”

A taut moment of silence flooded their hidden grotto. A sudden scrambling slide, a rustle of cloth and chime of steel. A flare of blue-white light so searingly bright it hurt even though he was veiled and turned away. 

Ganondorf sighed, levering himself up from the saddle. _You fool. You utter fool. Giving him leverage, you idiot, he will use it, he is patient, he is-_

“Gan - oh my love - can I take the sash now-? Can I touch you? Oh please - let me kiss you-”

“Hush, little hero,” rumbled Ganondorf, beckoning him closer. He lost his balance as Link flung himself upon him, tearing the cloth from his eyes without waiting for formal permission. He whined and buried his face against his shoulder, twining his arms around his neck. Ganondorf lay sprawled awkwardly against the saddle and sodden blankets, marveling at the passionate chaos of the ancient Hylian in his arms. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t good. I never - I _tried_ to think the pattern you told me to, but it’s _new_ and I _forgot_ things and I missed hearing the word and-”

“ _Hush_ I said. You danced for me a song you’ve never known before - and faithfully. No more nonsense,” rumbled Ganondorf, holding him gently, stroking his fine hair and damp kurta. “You didn't _hear_ the word because I didn’t _say_ it. I didn’t need to. Even under the mask, even with your senses and feelings wrapped in wool, you are _attentive_ , my little hero. Hush.”

Link whimpered. 

Ganondorf sighed, looking down at the man collapsed on his sweaty chest. His clothes were still damp from washing in their other form. And they were just - all wrong. _He is too beautiful to wear a plain, no-color child’s kurta. He should be arrayed in the verdant colors of life and renewal. Perhaps the rich reds of passion or even deep sublime blues of service - perhaps a true white for purity and potential. Even the mourning purple would be better, and in a way he is forever in mourning for his last life and for possible futures. Anything but these grays and tans, as if he is a ghost or a child._

_Or royal black for my Champion -_

_No. Stop it you fool._

Ganondorf shivered at the thought, the impression, the brief shard of a hopeless daydream. A fragile flame of a future where he could have a lazy morning in his own bed, with Link curled up on his chest, with Nialet and Varesh at his sides, with the soft quietude of birds courting in the fruit trees and their children playing in the garden below. 

_Victory. Peace. Safety. Love._

His body trembled again, overwhelmed by the aftershocks of rough sex and the ache of longing. “I cannot imagine how it is for you to awaken from the ashes of a life of peace into this war reborn. I am - honored to have fought beside you these two cycles. Whatever happens in these final days-”

“No-! We will win. I always win. I won’t let them take you,” cried Link, knees digging into his sides and his strong hands winding fiercely in his unruly short hair.

“Whatever happens,” Ganondorf rumbled over his objections, stroking a hand down his back. “I am glad to have shared these bright patterns with you, howsoever briefly. Ok? You are brave and good and kind, and you deserve better than the gods have portioned to you.”

“Oh _Gan_ ,” moaned Link against his neck. “ _Why_ are you talking like this?”

“Because,” said Ganondorf, guiding him to let go, to let himself be lifted up, to look into his eyes and see the painful truth. And to let Ganondorf admire the sweet softness of his fair face once more. “When we leave this place, there will be no more rest, no more hours to steal. Whatever you were before, the spells in the bluestone, in your tomb, in your scars, in your death mask - you may well be - be an immortal now. I hope I am right - I _hope_ . Link, do you understand? You have given me a gift beyond measure, this hope that they cannot touch you, this shard of Light that your spirit will remain strong and pure, and I _need_ you to know that.”

Link pulled his lip between his teeth, and braced himself upright with his hands folded over his heart. “You are talking like it’s over.”

Ganondorf nodded. “When we ride - we ride toward my death, one way or another. I need you to promise me you won’t let these pleasures, this rare and precious companionship you’ve offered me these two cycles - you _must not_ allow it cloud your judgment in battle.”

“ _If we have not won happiness, the battle is not over._ ” Link’s worry and sorrow crystallized before his eyes, hardening his beauty, forged and tempered and steel-sharp. His mortal voice filled the grotto, and his soul blazed with a fierce spiritlight surpassing any power he’d ever witnessed, greater than the demonstones, greater than the divine mask. Through the veil of worlds, in life and death and spirit and flesh, his oath seemed to echo like a hundred thousand bells in the holy cella of the Great Temple at the center of the world. “I swear by Light and Shadow before the Three, I will _never_ cease fighting for this to become. By the deepest of all laws the Chosen have demanded it, and _I will not rest_ until our prayer is answered.”

Ganondorf stared at the ancient warrior in his arms, and his heart stumbled. The next moon would rise in blood, and by the power of _centuries_ of sacrifices the spiritgate would open a spiritroad into the void, into a pale chaos called _Ganon_ , a shattered malice born from the defeat of the First of Warlords, Lord of Demons, Enemy of Light, the Great Calamity, Demise the Deathless. 

And standing against The End Himself-? For the sake of a strange, hopeless, foolish love?

One.

Tiny.

Hero.

Ganondorf cradled Link’s bright face in his trembling hands. No words came to his tongue. He could barely string together coherent thought. He begged with his fingertips, coaxing the man to lean closer, to answer the cry of his heart that he could not voice. 

A traitorous sting pricked his eyes. His heart stumbled and clenched, limping painfully, wounded by such deep and undeserved regard. He drew a shuddering breath, softened his desolate, blasphemous lips, closed his ill-omened eyes to the uncertain and treacherous future, and begged his champion for a tender kiss.

Link’s lips met his in a kiss _far_ removed from the idle, lustful patterns of comfort they’d begun to dance during the long and difficult journey. 

Ganondorf whimpered in longing and pain, heartbroken to find his beloved only now, only at The End, only when disaster lay in every direction.

Link kissed him again, and _again_ , his breath ragged and his skin hot.

Ganondorf did not dare open his spirit to entwine their hearts. The risk that sentiment would weaken him in the coming battle, would make him hesitate to strike the Enemy - the thought was terrible before, and unbearable now. He craved the sublime ecstasy of merging their spirits, he longed to wrap himself in the power of a love he coveted from the depths of his cursed soul. 

And yet, and yet. 

If he tapped the Eternal to weave their hearts together, there was a chance Ganon could use _him_ to seize Link. There was a chance that had been His design all along. There was a chance He knew of the ancient blessed hero and there was a chance He could use the power of the Warrior to rebuild His Divine Form once more.

“Oh _Link_ , oh hero-! Please, _please_ , I can’t bear it. I need you,” he gasped, clutching the man with desperation and torment. 

“I’m here, _I’m here_ my love,” murmured Link, kissing his cheek. “I will always be with you. _We will win_.”

Ganondorf shivered, struggling, stuttering, scrambling for words. “I want - I want - I need - _oh Link_. It’s too much. I can't feel this way. I will shatter. I need your strength.”

“It’s yours, I am yours. Anything you need,” said Link, kissing the corner of his eye, caressing his face, his hair, his neck, his chest.

“Make love to me,” begged Ganondorf, raw and broken. “Say these soft things with your skin. Give me a talisman to carry into the Night.”

“But I _have_ ,” said Link softly, leaning back to stare at him in confusion. “We have touched many times. It is not enough? It is not right? Teach me the pattern you want, it is yours, I will do it.”

Ganondorf shook his head. “I can’t. It doesn’t work that way. The mystery is - unique to your soul. I cannot know it until you show me.”

“Then make love to _me_ , so I can learn the feel of this mystery dance,” begged Link.

Ganondorf shook his head, closing his eyes to the man’s painful naïveté. “I _can’t_. It's not a thing of skill or tradition or even art. It is - a way of manifesting the cry of the spirit through the body.”

“I don’t know _how_ ,” cried Link, collapsing against his chest. “I’m not smart. I’m just a warrior. I don’t know these mysteries and patterns you study. I want to make people happy, so I ask what they want, and I do it. _That’s all I know._ Touching you is _different_ than memories of anyone else, not just because you’re a man. I don’t _know_ if any of the things women liked would make you happy, and if I do the _wrong thing_ you will be _mad_.”

“Then - for an hour, stop trying to solve the puzzle of what _I_ want,” rumbled Ganondorf, caressing Link’s bright hair. “What do _you_ want-? You say these soft words - if you mean them, there will be a feeling inside the words. What does the feeling say your body should do-?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” wailed Link, but he curled into a tighter knot, and dug his fingers and knees into Ganondorf’s sides, as if he would crush their skin together. “I want to touch you. I want to feel you happy. Everyone else tells me they like this or that, or I should move this way or stay still. Some I liked less, some I liked more. Especially when the things they asked me to do made them happy. _Why_ can’t making love be like before, all the other patterns where you told me what you wanted with words or touches? I don’t know how to _be_ without it.”

“Your previous lovers are perhaps fortunate I _cannot_ have words with them,” grumbled Ganondorf, wrapping one arm around Link so he could resettle more comfortably against the saddle. “I did not tell you to embrace me, just now. Yet you did.”

Link squeaked pathetically and tried to pull away - in vain, for Ganondorf locked his arm around the man. “Ohh _no_ I forgot to ask - I-”

“Hush. I wasn’t finished,” cut in Ganondorf, striving for calm and smooth and objective, though every grain of his heart cried in despair. “Anyways, you have permission, ok? I am not and will not be angry at you for this. The touch rules are - different than you think they are. But right now I want you to think about the action, and the feeling underneath, driving that action. You were not _told_ to do this - you did this of your own will. Consider _why_ . What _else_ is that feeling asking you to do? Anything-?”

“I don’t _know_ \- I just needed to touch you,” moaned Link. “You are warm and strong and I want the feel of your skin just - just _everywhere_ . I don’t understand it. It’s like when I first lay down inside a fairy blossom pool and it was warm and soft in a way that I felt it inside my skin too, except this is so much stronger it _hurts_ when I need it and _can’t_ touch you. I remember - _a lot_ of hurting in this way, but I also remember sharing blankets, in those times and others. I remember - you would kiss the top of my head, and I remember _not minding_ that you were teasing me for being short because any time you _wanted_ touch made my heart race so hard I sometimes thought it would explode. With Malon, and Cremina, and Anju and a few others, there was warm and soft and sweet, but it wasn’t like this. But I don’t remember even sex-kisses with you before, so _I don’t know what to do_.”

Ganondorf shivered with the intensity of longing those loving words stirred. He drew his knees up and wrapped his other arm around the smaller man, curling around him as much as he could with Link collapsed astride his waist. “ _How_ can you speak like this and _still_ not understand-? You want me to touch you?”

“ _Yes_ ,” moaned Link into the hollow of his shoulder.

“Then touch _me_ ,” rumbled Ganondorf. “Feel those words in your skin, feel how you want me to touch you when you have these feelings, and give this to me.”

“But - what if it’s wrong? What if you hate it-? What if I can’t do it right? What if-”

“I want this,” said Ganondorf softly, opening his arms. “Whatever and however _this_ is. Let me have the taste of making love with you upon my spirit _just once_ before we ride into hell.”

Link sobbed some incoherent objection, and for a long time he did nothing but cling and babble. 

Ganondorf let him.

Link kissed his chest, trembling and tender. The hollow of his throat. The cords of muscle rising up the side of his neck. His torn earlobe where a silver and topaz hoop used to rest.

When he hesitated, Ganondorf curled forward and dragged him close enough to mirror his kisses and savor the way he gasped and whimpered.

Link’s hands wandered. Tentative. Light. As gentle as his divine form was fierce. He began with patterns Ganondorf had taught him on the journey - loops and whorls and fingertips ghosting over the ridges and valleys of his muscles. He expanded his circuits, touching every inch of skin their position allowed. 

This too, Ganondorf mirrored.

Link mumbled things too low and blurry to make out, or even to be sure what language he used. He buried a hand in Ganondorf’s hair, and whimpered when his grasp was mirrored as much as possible. He stretched and wriggled, pressing more of their bodies together briefly. He groaned in frustration and untangled himself again, stripping off the damp kurta impatiently. He stood, still astride, unthreading his belt. Ganondorf helped him out of the boots and breeches, amused in spite of himself at the man’s scrambling efforts to strip naked.

“I _need_ your _skin_ . I don’t know why but clothing is dumb and I hate it right now. I know I’m not big enough to do the thing like this, but I _can’t_ feel _enough_ of you with _that face_ ,” Link huffed. He flexed and clenched his hands in frustration, his bright eyes darting. 

“The thing,” prompted Ganondorf when he didn’t explain or move, raising a brow.

Link sighed, gesturing helplessly. “You say to do what my skin wants. I want your skin wrapped around mine. _But I am small._ I can’t hold all of you. I could lay on top of you and not touch the blanket anywhere, and still it wouldn’t be enough to do that thing for you.”

Ganondorf pulled his lip between his teeth and pushed back against the ache. He gestured to urge the man down, guiding him with little touches to kneel between his thighs, to bow and rest his weight against Ganondorf’s chest, to bring himself close enough to wind limbs around, to capture the smaller man against him. “I know the skin hunger also.”

“But I’m not holding _you,_ ” said Link, rather muffled.

“Hn. It counts, little hero.”

Link sighed, nuzzling into his embrace. His hands began to wander again, and he offered more kisses - only _some_ of which gave way to gentle nips and tentative suckling. 

All of which fed the delirious, languid, rare pleasure of feeling desired.

“It is _good_ ,” sighed Link, wrapping his lips and tongue around a nipple again. He seemed increasingly fond of oral pleasures, and once the boundary of touch was crossed at all, not the least way shy about offering them. Nor did he evidence much consciousness of the traditions and taboos surrounding the inviolable body of a Great King. He seemed only vaguely aware of the perceived status and power of penetration in Hylian culture, but still he obsessed over a personal taboo against initiating touch of any kind.

“It is,” agreed Ganondorf, when his tongue would answer him at all. 

Link sighed. “So why am I still hungry?” 

“Hnn,” said Ganondorf as a fresh wave of heat flooded his skin. “ _Where_ is the hunger, little hero?”

“I don’t know,” whined Link. “ _Everywhere_ . It is _good_ but _more_ . How do I get more? Give more? Please my love, you _know things_.”

Ganondorf sighed, struggling to pull his mind back to something resembling objectivity.

“And _why_ am I _horny_ ? I don’t _want_ sex-kisses, there’s not enough _touching_ that way. Even laying on your stomach to kiss you there - it’s nice but - _not enough_. Ugh. Bodies are dumb.”

Ganondorf tried to stifle a laugh, but his lustful complaints were too precious. “Seriously? You never knew this pattern with _any_ avadha?”

Link hummed in thought, nuzzling his chest and wriggling his hips to resettle his stirring cock more comfortably between them. “Similar. Felt different, when they held me this way or wanted me to hold them - which was harder with Malon, because her _hips_ , and _thighs_ were - _unf_. You make fun of farmgirls now, but maybe after this we take holiday, introduce you to Cremina, you’ll see.”

Ganondorf laughed. “Hedonist hiding inside the hero, hn?”

Link made a rude noise and prodded his side, saucy and on the edge of ticklish. “ _Anyways_ the only _more_ in those memories isn’t _possible_ because _we_ don’t have ladyflower-oasis and the new pattern you just taught me? We can’t reach like this.”

“ _Unf_ . Incorrect. But _you_ won’t be taking my thorn today, in _any_ pattern,” rumbled Ganondorf, savoring the ticklish thrill in the cradle of his hips. _Later. Someday. Maybe. After victory._ “Don’t whine at me. You said it yourself, I know things you don’t. This is one of them. I am too big for you.”

“No-! I _need_ to _try it_. Like learning the sex-kisses. Maybe I can’t do it the same way you do, but I could take some-? Just the crown? Just a little taste?”

“It doesn’t work that way,” said Ganondorf, shoving away the impossible desire. “An _experienced_ avadha with a taste for those games might need dozen sessions to be _able_ to open for me.”

“But you said a thorn inside the rose is a good feeling-”

“ _For me._ With _years_ of practice. You have only begun in the _last_ _fortnight_ to explore the lightest caress of the outer gate, and expressed no interest whatever in more.”

“I didn’t know there _was_ more until today,” he cried.

Ganondorf sighed, and indulged a brief and violent fantasy of rebuking each and every one of the man’s prior idiot lovers. “ _Sa’ikhusa_ . Hylians have _no_ imagination.”

“You say that a lot,” mumbled Link, wriggling as if he could burrow deeper into his embrace. “I know it’s an oath but I don’t remember if you ever told me what it means.”

“ _Ikhusa_ is the Sands, our homeland. _Savai_ means - something sacred. Blessed. Holy.”

“What’s the other one? I haven’t heard it as much. _De-_ something. Cursed sands?”

“Hn. That would be if I blasphemed and named them _gamontirre_. Sa’Deasa ikhusa, sa’amali Geld’o. The Lady of Sands, holy mother of the Golden Ones.”

“I didn’t know you were devout. It seems strange,” he said, slowly, as if the thought truly challenged his understanding. “You corrupted the holy places, you challenged the gods, bargained with demons. I don’t remember you talking about gods before, or praying.”

“I am King. In a way, my _life_ is a prayer. Your Sacred Maidens listen to your gods, and pretend their decrees are handed down verbatim from divine word. They claim their laws are perfect and eternal and unchangeable because they are divine. I stand between the gods and spirits and demons and ancestors and my people, balancing them. When any oversteps their place, it is part of my function to correct it. I am the Law - and the Law _moves_ . The question of corruption - this depends in part on what _purity_ means. Consider: why would someone who _doesn’t_ revere gods spend their entire life searching for a divine relic?”

Link sighed. “Being king sounds _complicated_. How do you know what is the right thing? What if you’re wrong?”

“Hn,” said Ganondorf, locking the rest behind his teeth. 

“Will you teach me more of your language? I feel like - I only have pieces. You are always talking to me in Hylian.”

“You _are_ Hylian,” said Ganondorf with a chuckle, curling forward to kiss the top of his head. In a sense, it was easy to see how the man could mistake it for teasing. Yet he couldn’t resist the impulse - though the man was the most fearsome warrior he’d ever seen, he couldn’t shake the irrational desire to hold and protect him, to nourish him and keep him. 

“Mrrf. Why don’t you want me speaking Geld’o?”

“I didn’t say that,” he rumbled, trailing his hand down Link’s spine in no small part to feel him sigh and squirm and throb. “In our short time, I had prefer you understand me.”

“What if I want you to understand _me-?_ ” Link whined.

“Are you insulting my accent?” Ganondorf teased, slapping his shapely ass.

“ _Unnf_ ,” said Link, wriggling his hips again. His cock throbbed between them - and he ventured a hesitant query. “That felt - funny.”

Ganondorf smacked him again, not enough to even warm his skin yet.

Link answered with a startled squeak. His cock throbbed harder. “Ok, ok. I _know_ you’re annoyed and telling me to stop but - but that makes me think about teasing you on purpose. What are you _doing-?_ ”

“Taunting your lust apparently. Another time, we will find out how deep this well of your hidden desires, hn?”

Link sighed. “You only have an accent when you’re doing it on purpose. Your Hylian is better than mine.”

“No, you speak an older dialect. You seem to be missing words in the modern vernacular, but when you reach for more complicated ideas, you fall back on root words in Ancient High Hylian. Which doesn’t surprise me at all, given your - _hohkay_ hero, you keep squirming like _that_ and you’re going to earn another.”

Link snickered and ground against him again, taunting his own cock to stir in renewed interest, especially when he hummed in bemused contemplation after another few little slaps and caresses. He cradled the curve of his ass, clutching the man tight, telling himself not to let his fingers wander. 

Link sighed in apparent contentment and quieted his fidgets for a moment. “I still want to learn though. Maybe you will hear me better. Maybe it can bring you a small happiness, that you can be comfortable speaking your own language with me.”

“As you wish,” murmured Ganondorf, his heart clenching painfully tight. 

Link hummed in a soft sort of approval. “How do you say _I love you-?_ ”

“Hn. Directly to mischief.”

“I mean it,” whined Link. “It’s _important._ ”

“It - depends what you mean to say,” murmured Ganondorf, hoping the man couldn’t feel how his heart raced in panic. “To be fond of a thing - _asali_ , but you would not say this. Vo’salith is how you - claim that feeling as yours, about a man.”

“Vo’salith - so va’salith is to say it of avadha? And she would say va’salet about another avadha she is friends with? Asali is a nice word, but it doesn’t sound strong enough.”

“Vo’salet to say you are fond of her, but close. _Dyate_ is - to admire, to care, to respect. Adoration without _quite_ becoming worship.”

“Vo’dyat-?”

“Vo’dya _th_.”

“You’re trying to distract me.”

“Am not,” rumbled Ganondorf, though he really _didn’t_ want to stop the tiny little rolling shift of angle and pressure he’d begun indulging. “Jiradai, this is a close regard, not given lightly. Beloved kin and companions, closer than blood or comrades.”

“That sounds like - do I remember you saying vo’jiradat of Nabooru Chalut avadha Saiev?”

“I wouldn’t know, but probably. She is my Exalted Sun, my right hand, commander of the Golden Legions after me. When I fall, it may be that the People choose her to lead as Sun’s Heart, or they may exile her for my sins. Her amali was beloved of she who birthed me - though all avadha are my sisters, in your culture we are half-sibs.”

“How do you say that?”

“Hn. _We_ do not do things by _half_. Simply avha.”

“I meant beloved.”

Ganondof froze.

“I _knew_ you were trying to distract me,” grumped Link, smacking his hip. “You’re smart. You _know_ what I mean. And here you - you _asshole_. You give me any and every word but the right one-!”

“Jacheli’v,” whispered Ganondorf, giving to his fragile, ancient hero a word he had never in his life voiced. “Reverse the - order of - it is delicate - dangerous - claims possession of the _subject_ of the feeling as much as-”

“Vo’jachelit jacheli’v rajena,” interrupted Link.

Ganondorf shivered, and his face burned in shame for his stammering. “Vo’jachel _eth._ ”

“Mmm. Geld’o is hard,” sighed Link. He kissed his chest. He hummed to himself and wriggled into a more comfortable position - or perhaps into a more arousing one. It certainly had that effect on his own flesh. Link kissed his chest again, practicing the words softly, as if he would carve them into his mind. As if he had no idea how every syllable cut flesh from bone and bone from viscera and viscera from heart, and heart from spirit, until all that remained of the Great Ganondorf was a helpless mess of mortal scraps tangled around his beloved hero. 

There were no words for the depths of his torment. 

For once, Link seemed to understand his silence, giving him kisses and caresses and grinding their hips together to mutual distress, _while naming him beloved_.

And then he asked for more.

Saying the touching of their skin was not enough, that he needed more, that he wanted to know the rose pattern in his own skin, filling and being filled, that his body cried to be forever entangled. The struggle to remember how to conjure almost broke him. Ganondorf couldn’t bear the thought of losing his touch even for a moment. He summoned the little tin of salve - dismayed to find how little remained. He stole half of it to anoint his hero, his hands trembling shamefully as he caressed tender flesh. 

Link mirrored his tenderness perfectly, so perfectly, too perfectly. “Do you want me inside again, beloved?”

Ganondorf whimpered because he could not speak.

“Eshalu is singing, yeah?”

Ganondorf bit his tongue and nodded, tracing the throbbing softness of Link’s dark rose with a gentle fingertip. He was softening, he was opening, he was making such sweet sounds of distress and desire at the tease.

He was.

He was wriggling his narrow hips.

He was low enough to slip his elegant pink cock.

He was reaching past sack and root to rest his forge-hot crown into the cradle of his rose.

“Esha’vo jacheli’v rajena,” murmured Link, arching his hips forward.

Ganondorf gasped in spite of himself as his ridge popped.

Link was the one who sang. “Blessed Light it’s _hot_ , you’re so hot, goddess help me-!”

Ganondorf grinned madly at the distant, blurry stone roof of their grotto, and sank the tip of his heartfinger through the first gate in mirror of him.

“Oh - oh _Gan_ , why didn’t you _say-?_ I want you, want more, want so much, _oh_ beloved,” stammered Link breathlessly, pushing slowly deeper.

“Hnn,” said Gan, thrusting his fingertip through the second gate to hear his little hero loose a strangled cry of passion.

“ _Vo’jacheleth_ ,” gasped Link into his chest.

“ _J-jacheli_ ,” cried Link against his skin.

“Vo’dyath-! Vo’jachel- _ohgoddess-!_ V-v-v-oh Gan I’m _gonna-_ ”

“Jacheli’v tell me - say I - oh _please._ ”

“Hnnn _oh I can’t stop_ . Jacheli’v rajena - please - oh - it’s. It’sss _ohno-!_ ”

Ganondorf held him tight as he came, pulsing his fingertip in time to the throb inside him. He was easy and comfortable and slick and warm, gentle and trembling. He stammered in a mash of two languages. His accent was _terrible_ , and his accent was charming as _fuck_. His desperation was stronger than majir. His whimpering was sweeter than honey. His shuddering sigh as he pushed his body to move again, as he rode the aftershocks, as he thrust deeper, seeking to hilt himself in the madness was sublime.

Ganondorf toyed with him when he could remember that he was supposed to. 

Sweat and salve mingled between their skin. As Link moved on him, inside him, wrapped in his arms, he cried his name, he named him the impossible, he promised and begged and sang, and he had no idea. None. He surely thought the skill and strength of a warrior turned lover was the key unlocking his tongue. He was Hylian. He surely believed he conquered flesh with his own. 

Ganondorf prayed Link would not guess the truth when he could remember he was supposed to.

_Not yet, not yet._

_I can’t bear it._

Over and over, Link poured out the beautiful lie, driving him further into the impossible dream with every thrust. The little grotto trembled with their voices entwined. The world spun, or didn’t. The sun moved, or didn’t. The gods turned away from their blasphemy, or didn’t.

_I love you, flower of our hopefulness, my beloved, my king._

_I love you, song of my heart._


	14. Skill - 4 of 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for more poetic violence...

The sun set behind the wall of the black wind. 

Ganondorf did not look at the demigod of war riding his horse.

He wound his shawl over his mouth and nose, and briefly regretted not summoning his mantle at the last estate. _It won’t matter anyway. If I cannot weave a four-day shield, we are both dead, and the world will burn._

Link spurred Asifad into a steady lope beside him.

“Victory is death,” bellowed Ganondorf at the wind.

Link raised his terrible voice in a war cry of his own, and charged ahead of him into the perilously narrow wedge of clear ground directly ahead. As an arrow through the rain, the sands divided before them and crashed behind them. Beat after beat, sand under hooves, the deadly howl of fell and ancient fury all around them, they raced toward their prey.

Every third hour they stopped. Ganondorf let the stalhorse drop, reclaiming the power to reshape the shield as a lacework egg around the three of them. He gave Asifad a bowl of water, and claimed a single mouthful for himself. Link refused any at all. As they’d sorted the gear one last time, cutting down to the absolute lightest they could countenance and loading as much on the stalhorse as possible, Link insisted he would need no provisions at all as long as he didn’t take the mask off.

He promised Din’s Fire never died.

He promised Nayru’s Love never failed.

He promised Farore’s Wind never missed.

He promised he would win.

They reached the Eye of Strata shortly before zenith on the fourth day. The stalhorse collapsed under him in the sunlight, and he was too tired to break his fall correctly.

Link looked down at him, his divine white eyes blazing behind the red glass of his oryx-horned skull helm. He remembered his role. He unhooked the trishul from its carrying boot and dismounted cleanly. He did not offer help to a mere construct. He merely watched it struggle to reclaim its feet and brushed sand from his own black and umber armor. Asifad hung his proud head, sweaty, foaming, exhausted.

Ganondorf didn’t bother cursing. He just dragged the saddlebags and gear free of the lifeless stalbones and dumped it all at the feet of the ancient warrior wearing his face. 

Link gave him the trishul to hold, to lean on, to draw strength from, and knelt to sort through what had survived the crossing. He still said nothing. He held up the scoured and useless hunk of pot metal that was once a mirror-bright sacred shield. He tossed it aside, and kept working. One thunderspear survived, four swords including his own twin beauties, two bottles of bloodlime preserves, and one single box of field rations. The bows were a lost cause, and the fireflower charges were too damaged to trust. A case of green chu concentrate survived, and Ganondorf considered the vile restoratives with more longing than he had ever felt for a honeycake as a child.

When Asifad had finished his bowl of water, Link gave him the thunderspear, and Ganondorf gave him the trishul. For barely three beats, their hands met. He knew Link couldn’t feel anything from it in his divine form, in flesh or in spirit. And yet - his heart begged to understand something, _anything_ implied by that subtle crumb. He knew better. He knew intimately the hazards of sentiment.

_But I am still mortal._

_For now._

They turned west, and on the sixtieth day since they walked out of an ancient tomb as allies, they walked toward the bright travertine marvel that was the Forbidden Temple at the omphalos of the world. In the deepest, darkest layers of the shrines and catacombs beneath it lay the Eternal Spirit Gate. In less than fourteen days, the bloodmoon would rise, and the Gate would open, Rites or no Rites. 

Without them, a mere fraction of the malice and pale devastation that was Ganon would cross the veil into the mortal world. In a short time or a long time, chaos would find his marked host, without mercy or subtlety or fear of divine laws. It had happened before. Ganon had eaten many kings and would-be kings and warlocks and despots before him. This time, He was fat on centuries of sorrow and suffering and stolen magic. This time, His vessel was born of demonkin and dynasties of Heroines. This time, His Chosen was King by blood and by Trial. This time, His Chosen was the most powerful sorcerer in the mortal world.

In a short time or a long time, it wouldn’t really matter which, the defiance or death of the vessel would inevitably deteriorate His physical form, and the manifestation of Ganon would be forced to find a new host, or be shattered. Whatever survived His divine wrath would crawl through another age of darkness until the Blood Moon rose over the Spirit Gate on the darkest night once more.

_With_ the Dark Rites-? With a powerful, willing, mageborn host?

The Gate would stay open long enough for the Great Destroyer to pour Himself into His prepared vessel and together they would plunge the mortal world into chaos and misery and subjugation, as it was in the beginning. 

The great bronze doors under the colossus stood open.

_They are waiting for me._

Link strode ahead of him, deadly, confident, War Himself wrapped in the seeming of a King. He strode eight long paces over sacred ground and brought the butt of the trishul down upon the stones, waking the captive demon inside it, exactly as they’d planned. 

“ **It is time,** ” bellowed Link to the supposedly empty chamber. 

“You come early, my son.” Koume scolded from everywhere and nowhere.

“You are _dripping_ with glorious misery, my son.” Kotake cackled.

“ **Hn. I bring a gift for She Who Awaits.** ”

“A gift-!”

“A sacrifice-?”

“A toy?”

“A weapon?”

“ **All of these, for my most loyal subjects,** ” countered Link as he dropped, punching the ground in a roar of green fire.

Ganondorf counted three. He did not pray. He did not allow his mind to wander. He took one half-step to the left, and dropped to one knee, right fist pressed to the ancient stones. He dropped the spells that had cloaked him for sixty days as green fire erupted around him.

Link manifested so close to him the topaz on his pauldrons screamed as divine scalemail scraped against it.

_I will not miss, you said. Star and Sand, you are magnificent._

They stood as one.

“ _Ohh_ what a delightfully ugly puppet,” cooed Koume.

“Such _detail_ in your sculpting, you could almost believe it was alive,” said Kotake. 

“You have certainly grown in the gifts of the Master, my son.”

“It is a hundred times more refined than your last construct, my son.”

“What a prodigious waste of energy.”

“The Master has no use for an offering in effigy.”

“You always did have a weakness for squandering your time on art.”

“But you said it is _more_ than a sacrifice -”

“You said it is for us, not the Master-?”

“Is it a memento-?”

“Is it a slave-?”

Ganondorf looked neither left nor right. He took four mechanical steps forward, through the clinging scraps of green fire. He stood silent, impassive.

Link tapped the trishul on stone once as he settled into a more comfortable rest.

Ganondorf drew the thunderspear from his back, his movement rigid and skeletal. He held it loosely in sixth guard. He waited.

Koume and Kotake chattered and taunted him.

Link said nothing, did nothing. He waited.

Exactly as expected, the Rova _finally_ clawed their way to the expected decision.

“Let us test it, sister!”

“Let us break it, sister!”

“Let us see how he makes his puppet dance-!”

“Let us see how deep his little portrait goes-!”

The stone wall opened onto the second chamber of the sanctuary. Fifty feet away, an elite warrior stood with her hands folded over the shaft of her labrys.

Ganondorf stepped forward.

Beat after beat, thump and scream of ensorcelled iron.

Ganondorf danced a graceless, fruitless circuit.

Clang and crash, feint and charge, and still he could not break through her guard without destroying the careful illusion.

Link stood at the door, holding the trishul, watching. He said nothing. He did nothing.

Koume and Kotake taunted him, insulted his work, lusted for its destruction.

They declared his construct _boring_.

Link stepped forward, lowering the trishul.

The Iron Knuckle pivoted, caught by the dangerously simple compulsion to destroy all opponents. They flanked her - she could not obey without disobeying, and that slowed her for just long enough. Ganondorf leapt in as he had a dozen times already, thrusting at the back of her knee and her side, where any mortal warrior would be weak, where even if she was warded against the lightning her armor would be thinner, the fastenings vulnerable. He made her decision for her. She pivoted a second time, drawing her heavy double-headed axe back to strike.

Link moved.

Light on his feet.

Whirling.

Graceful.

Thrusting the central blade of his long weapon through the tiny gap between armor plates on her back to sever the hidden silk cords. She faltered. Link tumbled past her.

Ganondorf followed him, repeating the pattern precisely, though there were no longer cords to sever.

Koume and Kotake chattered in speculative ignorance.

Link circled behind Ganondorf as he stalked the Iron Knuckle, returning calmly to his place. As if he had no further interest in the contest.

Ganondorf played stupid, drawing his enemy out. When she committed to another weighty strike, he tumbled away in the same pattern Link had used to slip under her guard. He thrust the thunderspear through another infinitesimal gap in spell-forged plates.

“ _It learns-!_ ” cried the Rova.

Ganondorf did not smile.

The fight was over in less than a minute, leaving armor scattered across the sanctuary, and one miserable criminal bleeding out on ancient stones.

A new door opened.

Two Iron Knuckles chased him around a defiled shrine. Their spell-forged armor was no stronger than their sister’s, but it was blasphemous. They were made to enrage any and all Geld’o who had the misfortune to see them. They were made to trap and destroy.

The profane runes on the horned helm of the one were wrought in gold. Her labrys was chased in gold. The ruby cabochons on her helm and cuirass were set in gold. The demonic script on her weapon and armor was carved deep and filled with gold. 

The other marched her in every way, exchanging sapphire for ruby and silver for gold.

Sun and Moon, defiled.

Ganondorf did not allow himself even one grain of anger.

He danced with a deliberate and exhausting lack of grace. He grew tired. The thunderspear gathered chips and cracks. Once again, he waited for the Rova to grow bored of the repetitive contest. 

Link stepped forward.

In eight breaths, he tangled the Iron Knuckle on one another, luring them to pursue him from the same position. This time he did not press the attack. He let Ganondorf slip behind them to sever the first cords of each. He held his own place only long enough for the cursed warriors to focus on their main opponent. He pivoted cleanly and returned to the door to wait, and to watch.

The Rova were delighted.

They gave him three Iron Knuckles in the wreckage of a shrine that should have been guarded from that very desecration by an ancient beamos. 

Sanctuary and shrine, storehouse and cella, tomb and corridor, spiraling ever downward. Circling around the walls of the abyss. He dismantled constructs and necromantic puppets. He destroyed mind-blasted criminals and priceless ancient relics. 

Koume and Kotake enjoyed the violent pattern of their newest toy. The thunderspear shattered, forcing him to draw the twin swords long before they could taste their purpose. He danced his way through deadly challenges, and with each victory, each deceptive ‘lesson’, he reclaimed a little more of his true skill - and marveled at Link’s perfect dispassionate mastery. 

He had no doubt whatever that any fatal mistake would be dismissed with the same cold efficiency, and he would leverage the unraveling of the illusion to strike at the Rova in some way. He would win. At any cost.

In another world, he could feel himself embrace that truth. The phantom whisper of rest and comfort in death lured him into a mistake. The labrys caught his shoulder. The force of the great weapon flung him across the little room and into the wall. 

Link did not step forward to help. He did not raise the trishul to distract the enemy. He watched, as Ganondorf had watched many a stalknight fulfill his patterns over the years. 

Ganondorf lunged away from the descending axe at the last possible moment. Steel cleaved into stone. Yet he could not press the attack at once. He reset his position and resumed his stalking pattern as the Iron Knuckle fought to free her weapon. He wasted _time_ , bruised and bleeding, craving rest - all to maintain the illusion that _might_ give them one slender chance. 

All to amuse and distract the sadistic witches who raised him to be a monstrous king. 


	15. Skill - 5 of 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Descent into Darkness

At last, the deepest chambers of the Forbidden Temple unlocked in a twist of many-colored flame. Koume and Kotake crowed with delight as they welcomed the king - and fawned over the construct. Ganondorf held his tongue as they chattered, manifesting themselves as dancing flame, blue and red, hot and cold. 

“Look at that little puppet, my sister. It obeys _and_ it learns and it even acts like it knows pain-!”

“Indeed my sister, and it is even more hideous than before, my sister. Look how rough he wove its skin. Almost like the real thing-!”

“It is much better than your last one, my son, this one might actually be _fun_.”

“The last one barely even squirmed when we broke his hands.”

“Still, it is a pathetic _failure_ as a weapon. It killed the slaves far too swiftly.”

“And just _look_ at what you’ve done to the glorious design we taught you. It’s _bleeding_.”

“You captured the _aesthetic_ of a living sacrifice - but your work remains sloppy.”

“Mortal magic is a child’s sketch before pure and eternal glory.”

“You squander your potential with these little games, my son, when you could have embraced His Darkness and surpassed this trash years ago.”

“Let us see if this one screams when we tear the shell open, and maybe we will keep the skin to play with when we’ve eaten the magic inside.”

Ganondorf crossed the spell-woven barrier to take his place on the blood-grooved offering stone. They did not interrupt their hungry taunts to consider that a true construct should not have been _capable_ without his hand physically on it. He knelt before the abyss and grasped the blood-rusted chains as he had not in eleven long years. He looked neither left nor right as he waited.

Constructs do not fear.

He did not turn to look at Link one last time. 

Constructs do not regret.

The currents of magic shifted, flowing around him as the Rova reached for their elemental powers first. As always.

They did not bother to be fast or subtle.

After all, constructs do not resist. 

Ganondorf rose in an undulating twist, drawing his beautiful twin blades as he moved, striking each coil towards the caster’s counterpart.

Koume and Kotake screamed as one, stunned in the same breath by their twin’s magic. They fell from their veils of elemental ether, shrunken hags in royal black, clinging desperately to their enchanted brooms. Link moved too fast to track cleanly, lunge and ballestra and cross-step, a clean and swift crescent, striking both witches with the trishul before they could shake off the magic. The temple shivered and stone roared as the paths joining the Altars of the Four Winds dropped away.

“The Great Ganondorf?” Koume cried as she rose on a hissing spiral of flame.

“The Great Traitor!” Kotake cried as she rose on a spiral of crackling ice.

Ganondorf waited, swords held loose. He did not turn to watch them fly through the air. He did not call his magic to join their dance. He did not summon lightning their shields would spin away, nor did he draw upon the sucking power of entropy that could not overpower the immortal gifts of the oldest of demons.

“How dare you-!”

“After all we have done-!”

“We _made_ you-”

“We can _unmake_ you-!”

They each spun a pair of spell-darts, flinging them at Link.

_They still believe he is me-!_

Link danced through the arc of the darts confidently - weaving a common sword pattern and making no move whatever to counter them.

They wove another.

 _They must not have been able to tell the blade from the magic - how long has it been since_ **_they_ ** _have known suffering, that they cannot mark one pain from the other?_

Ganondorf held his position, uncertain how to draw their aggression back to himself without revealing - himself.

Link solved the puzzle for him, dancing from altar to altar, evading the deadly spells without even attempting to deflect them. He drew their attacks where he wanted them, tricking them into trying to hit him from the far side of his little gift, allowing Ganondorf to catch and redirect the magic as a construct protects his master. This time, the Rova parried their twin’s darts, spinning the magic away to dissipate into nothing.

Ganondorf waited.

Link danced.

The Rova did not parry the reflected magic so cleanly the second time, sending the little enchantments within reach of his blades once more. They screamed as the destructive magic of their counterpart nullified their many protections, throwing them to the ground at his feet.

Ganondorf stood over them, letting a spark of lightning sizzle down the bright steel edge of each blade, panting for breath. He could not touch them yet. The shields guarding them from Light and Shadow, Wind and Spirit remained strong. Their only weakness remained their sister elements - powers they had long since sealed away from his direct command if he drew within a hundred leagues of them.

Link leapt to the central altar barely in time to add to their injuries before their magic could repair itself. He said nothing. He hesitated not at all, dancing away again to pace the room from altar to altar as a wolfos circles his prey.

Twice more, thrice more they wove the same pattern, faster every time, demanding more and more treacherous ripostes every time.

Ganondorf missed.

His knees buckled under him, frigid fire consuming him, blood and bone and spirit.

The stones rumbled.

The blood of the Host dripped upon the altar of the Master.

Ganon stirred.

“ **You have always been fools,** ” bellowed Link. “ **Do you think you can stand against** **_me_ ** **? Do you think you will defeat the Great Evil King? Do you think you hurt** **_me_ ** **, beating a failed construct?** **_You make me stronger._ **”

Koume and Kotake howled in rage.

Ganondorf leaned on his blades as an ancient vaba leans on sticks to rise from prayer. His muscles screamed in protest, trembling shamefully, his bones snarled and snapped at him, shredding his focus. He could no longer pretend that he did not need to gasp for air.

Fell demonic curses howled around him.

Stone trembled.

Ganon began to awaken.

Eerie blue light warred with red, and clouds of choking miasma rose from the abyss to consume the Great Rova.

Link raised the trishul high, twisting it to catch the spell-light in pattern. _Be ready._

“Fuck you,” groaned Ganondorf under his breath, raising his blades. He was no stranger to pain. _Time runs short, hero. I hope you know what you’re doing._

Laughter, shrill and terrible. Miasma spun and shattered, falling away from a magnificent beauty fifteen feet tall. Silver and gold paint ornamented her smooth olive-leaf skin, and she sparkled with a thousand flawless corundum jewels, ruby and sapphire, even to the massive , particolored spirit gem crowning her elegant brow. She danced on air, painting ice and fire with enchanted brushes as long as he was tall. The white silk of her gods’-teeth sirwal flowed with her, and the particolored tails of her girdle lifted in the wind of her grace. Black silk caressed her wasp-thin waist and voluptuous breasts, bound her lustrous white hair, fluttered from her elegant arms. She was a vision of sex and power unlike anything in the world.

“ _Fool_ am I-? You are _nothing_ without _me_ , Rajolaan. You were born into this world a sheep, a mewling ugly beast fit only to to eat and fuck and shit and feed the rest of the herd when your mortal guts fall from your frame. I _made_ your greatness! I have lifted you from the filth of the mortal world, carving away the useless waste and honing you into an instrument of glory! Enough with these games - kneel before your destiny, child.”

“ **The Great Ganondorf does not** **_kneel_ ** **,** ” bellowed Link, dropping into third guard.

She laughed, weaving a tempest of ice and fire, spinning it around the room above them, faster, faster. Fire crushed ice into powder and vapor, ice smothered fire into embers and smoke. The ceiling boiled with magestorm - she shrieked in wicked glee, pulling blue and orange magebolts from the tempest to hurl at Link.

Who chose _one_ to reflect towards his ally.

Blue, achingly bright.

She cried out, but she did not fall. “Naughty child, throwing tantrums before your mother! Repent, and cry my name in sorrow, that you may be purified.”

Link said nothing. He danced aside of red bolts, striking only blue. Most flew wide. 

Ganondorf caught a second, a third.

The fourth shattered her levitation spell. She dropped her brushes. She fell upon the Altar of the North in apparent agony. Her other wards remained whole. 

Ganondorf knelt to catch his wind, resonating with the earthshakes of Ganon’s rage as Link thrust the trishul into the heart of Twinrova.

It was not enough.

She fell from the stones into the abyss, but the miasma bore her up again. Her flowing twin horsetails cracked and blazed with fresh magic. Ice and fire. Always.

Link caught a red bolt for him, but this time she threw a curtain of blue ice-tethers between the two of them, and the fire died before he could reach it.

“Wicked child, you will never dance well enough to surpass us as you are! Embrace your glorious destiny - the Master _will_ sheathe himself in your flesh soon enough, whether you are whole or in pieces when the Dark Rites begin.”

Link snarled, feral and terrifying. He flipped the trishul in a bright flourish - and braced his hands the wrong way on the shaft.

_She will see through the mask any moment now - the more he does and says, the more of his fierce nature surfaces - eight weeks is not enough to retrain him._

She hurled a twist of sorcerous flame at Link.

He did not parry.

He thrust the central blade of the trishul through the heart of the glyph, snaring the power for himself.

She screamed in rage and flung two more. 

He caught one with a flanking blade.

She hurled obscenities and wove a blossom of ice under his feet.

 _Somehow_ he sprinted free of the glyph before she completed it.

Ganondorf waited, hoarding his strength for the right moment. _Or maybe the only moment. Link hurry - He is rising._

Twinrova chased him around the altars, flinging magic at him as if her reserves were infinite - or as if she was drawing power through the Spirit Gate already. 

The stones under his feet grew warm, and Ganondorf paced a tight circuit upon the altar, watching his mother hunt his beloved. His stomach churned to see him catch a magebolt to his thigh and lose the stolen enchantment in dropping the trishul. _If I move too soon, I might as well slit his throat myself_. 

The entire temple shook.

Twinrova threw her next spell poorly, distracted by the first threads of eternal malice crawling over the Gate, nearly a fortnight early.

Ganondorf closed his eyes as Link howled a war cry that shredded the last vestiges of the illusion cloaking his divine form. He launched his spirit through the shadowroads, unsurprised to see the Blood Moon on the horizon already. _Why should a god wait for the heavens when He can arrange them to His pleasure?_

The fury of Twinrova flared against the veil between worlds as Link returned her own magic to her. Ganondorf dropped through the shadows above her, falling as she fell, pinning her silks to the Altar of the West.

Link did not charge across the gap to strike her. 

Red shards danced through the rising miasma. 

Ganondorf counted breaths, watching for an opening, a weakness in her shields, waiting for Link to join him.

Stone cracked and popped and ground against itself at the edges of the vast Gate.

Twinrova _laughed_.

Shrill and cruel and mad. Her graceful shoulders shook. Her sharp white teeth glistened in the spell-light. Her demon-gold eyes fixed on him. And yet she lay sprawled on the stone at his feet, making no effort whatever to free herself from the pin - or hold fast to the magic draining away from her. 

The temple shook again, and this time it was more than dust that fell.

Link did not come to him. Did not speak or cry out.

**YOU HAVE EVER BEEN A HOPELESS FOOL.**

“I was wondering when you’d bother to show up,” drawled Ganondorf. He did not take his eyes from his mother for even one heartbeat.

**YOUR PAIN PLEASES ME, HUMAN. YOU BRING A NEW SPICE ON YOUR SOUL THIS YEAR - OPEN THE GATE THAT I MAY FEAST ON IT-!**

“You’ve waited ten thousand years for a worthy avatar, you can wait ten more minutes,” he countered. The temple shivered, tumbling more shards of stone into the abyss. “See something _interesting_ , amali? How long have you lusted for your Dark Master? Three centuries? Four? How long do you _really_ think you will last under Him when your magic runs out?”

**YOU CANNOT BARGAIN FOREVER.**

“Unlike you, I do not _require_ forever to get off. Be a good little monster and eat the lightning shield next, would you? I have another little _gift_ for She Who Awaits.”

**HUMANS DISGUST ME.**

“Not my problem,” said Ganondorf, tucking the tip of one sword under her jaw. “Surprised he took your steel-ward instead? You shouldn’t be. You’ve served Him for ages. He _likes_ blood. Did you think offering Him the misery of others would make you _special_ to Him? Did you _really_ think the Great Destroyer would pet and praise and pleasure you? Give you _power_ under His glorious reign? Are you truly _so stupid_ that you thought you would be allowed to witness the blood-soaked sea of His glorious darkness just because you tortured a few pathetic sacrifices every season?”

“Oh ho-! So that’s how it is? Long live the Great Ganondorf,” she cackled.

**YOU BORE ME. OPEN THE GATE OR I WILL OPEN IT MYSELF. ONE WILL HURT MORE.**

“And you think I _care_ ? Have you _met_ me?” Ganondorf drawled, dragging the wicked steel down her neck, carving a shallow, elegant arc in her olive skin. He could not help but smile as she flinched. He vanished his off-hand blade back to its sheath, and spat the Word of summoning, commanding the trishul to return to his hand, wherever it might have fallen.

**I SUSPECTED YOU MIGHT BECOME AN INTERESTING PUPPET.**

“All for Your Glory that You may incarnate in splendor, Master!”

Ganondorf kicked her in the teeth to interrupt her vulgar flattery and plucked the ancient weapon from the air. “The _lightning ward_ , relic. You will have until the end of time to seek whatever vengeance you like - this one is _mine_.”

**PATHETIC HUMAN - YOU POSSESS NOTHING. YOU BELONG TO ME. YOU HAVE ALWAYS BELONGED TO ME. YOU WILL ALWAYS BELONG TO ME. YOU HAVE LESS THAN NO RIGHT TO DEMAND ANYTHING OF ME.**

“Don’t I? Tell me, how long have your last few holidays from the Void run? A week? A month? A few paltry seasons? Hyrule flourishes, you absolute farce,” sneered Ganondorf. He surrendered a lifetime of bloody fantasies - _the end is all that matters, really_. He snapped the trishul about and plunged it home. 

**FOOLISH HUMAN - YOU HAVE WASTED HER FEAR AND PAIN-**

“Hn. And whose fault is that, relic? You want to indulge your usual habits, suit yourself,” said Ganondorf with a shrug, striking the blood from the blade and peering around the slowly crumbling chamber. Link was nowhere at all. Heaps of rocks lay on the other altars, and more rained from the ceiling as he watched. Something pale caught his eye on the main altar though, caught under a larger slab of travertine. “If you want to feast on _suffering_ though, especially if you want the bloodline of Hylia under your heel? You will listen to me. I have trained in the art my whole life, and with a season or three for some subtle rebalancing, I can lure the Sacred Maiden into our arms.”

**I LISTEN. OPEN THE GATE.**

“Hn. Thought so,” said Ganondorf, pulling a little breath of magic to aid his leap to the central altar. “You like to pretend you want nothing but blood - and with small-minded sadists like her-? That works. They don’t care to look deeper anyway. They only want to see themselves in your eyes.”

**YOU THINK YOU HAVE ANYTHING TO TEACH A GOD? I LISTEN BECAUSE YOUR FOLLY AMUSES ME, NOTHING MORE.**

Ganondorf paced around the altar stone, pretending to study the crumbling room. He squinted against the dust for a few moments, letting it sting. It was as much as he deserved anyway. The little scrap of white caught under the stone was the familiar painted deathmask. White. Carmine. Indigo. “The Gate will not stay whole long enough for full Rites. Their magic is too deeply embedded in the stones after centuries of neglect.”

**SO REPAIR IT YOU FOOL.**

“I _would_ , but I exhausted my personal power _reaching_ the Gate. She wanted to sate her own bloodlust more than she ever wanted to serve you. Replenish me, and I will see what may be done to buy time for more of the ritual.”

**ARE YOU SO ARROGANT YOU BELIEVE YOU CAN TRICK YOUR GOD?**

“Who said anything about tricks?” Ganondorf grinned at the shadows and the crumbling stones around the remaining support pillars. “I can’t climb out of here in ten minutes, and I can’t take the spiritroads to the surface without far more power than it would take to stabilize the Gate. You can easily use my shell afterwards, but you’ll lose the better half of your time digging yourself out of the ruins - and I certainly won’t be around to enjoy your conquest. I have nothing left to lose and everything to gain from this alliance.”

**YOU HAVE DELAYED THE DARK RITES YEAR AFTER YEAR, REFUSED TO GIVE YOUR BLOOD TO ME, AND NOW YOU EXPECT ME TO BELIEVE YOU?**

Ganondorf laughed. “I expect nothing. I am a War King. I choose death.”

Laughter. Deep and terrible.

Miasma coiled around him.

Red shards whirled through the darkness.

Ganondorf unfolded his spirit in the heart of Malice Himself.

A scream.

Ganondorf uttered the first Word of the immortal invocation.

The scream continued, echoing through the chaos.

Ganondorf uttered the second Word, spreading his senses to touch every stone in the Gate with a fragile thread of demonic Power.

A scream of despair, a scream of torment, a scream of such heartwrenching agony he stuttered and dropped the third Word in broken pieces from his tongue, shattering the Ritual.

 _Link-!_

**WHAT IS THIS? DO YOU ATTEMPT TO BETRAY ME, HUMAN-?**

“You have not given me enough power to repair the Gate _and also_ destroy whatever pipsqueak interrupted my Work. _Take care of it_ \- I must begin the spell anew.”

Ganon roared.

Light flared, brilliant and blue-white.

Ganondorf uttered the first Word.

A many-colored wind of bright agony ripped across his left side.

Ganon howled in rage.

Light crashed around the crumbling chamber.

Ganondorf began the first Word again, thinking only of the spell, only of the ritual, only of holding his spirit open towards the Dark.

 **WHAT HAVE YOU** **_DONE_ ** **, WRETCH?** **_HOW_ ** **HAS THE SPIRIT OF THE HERO ENTERED THIS HOPELESS PLACE? YOUR WORLD WAS TO BE SCOURED OF HIS WRETCHED SOUL LONG AGO-!**

“You tell me, relic. You’re the one who bargained with a vain and greedy witch for a few hot meals and a regular fuck. You want me to save you, little godling? Then give me the Power I bloody well asked for.”

**I DO NOT NEED SAVING - I AM ETERNAL. MY HATE CANNOT PERISH.**

“Hn, but your avatar _can_. Hope that gilded stone wasn’t important.”

Ganon roared.

Many-colored pain lanced through his hands as raw, immeasurable, primal power flowed into his soul. Light after light in the whirling darkness, every mote made of pain. Ganon’s fury echoed off of every smallest shard, carving him to pieces between light and shadow.

Over and over, he began the spell to open the Gate, to repair the Gate, to open the Gate. Stuttering and stumbling every time the Light cut him. Losing the threads. Demanding more Power. Weaving _just enough_ to buy his beloved one more breath. 

To buy him one more chance to win.


	16. Gentleness - 1 of ?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> idek anymore. so much for short stories.

Fire and ice danced through the air, whirling and elegant and deadly. Luminescent glyphs chased him across chasm and altar, seeking weakness. 

They flickered and failed where they met the hand of a fierce god, for the dead have no weaknesses left to leverage, and the man beneath the divine fury could not allow himself to notice pain. The demon in his borrowed weapon snarled and snapped and demanded blood.

Link fed it magic instead, thrusting the blades through coils of enchanted fire, stealing TwinRova’s spells for himself. She screamed obscenities and fell curses, and tried to ensnare him with an ice-trap. He danced away, again and again - he needed one more little theft to overload the cursed blades and fling the captive power back at its weaver. 

She caught his thigh with a raw magebolt, stretching the burning ray too thin to ensnare with the trishul. He stumbled, dropping the terrible weapon.

The entire temple shook.

The first threads of eternal malice crawled from every edge of the vast Gate in which he fought for the life and liberty of the greatest enemy of everything he was sworn to protect. 

He remembered now, oaths in a thousand lives, binding himself to defend peace and order and light. He remembered now, blood on his hands. He remembered now, climbing a dark tower in pursuit of the woman who charged him to save the world in the beginning of all things.

_ Link-! _

The deep and pained and bubbling rasp of a dying man. The Great Evil King on his knees before his executioner. Reaching for him. Shaping his name. One single word he should never have known, nor cared to know. 

He remembered now, the blood. The evil, demonic eyes of sickly yellow sclera and glowing red iris, and how the colors bled away to reveal tired, bloodshot white and rich roc’s gold framed by blurred khol. The Evil King touching his chest - not in violence, but in a gentle plea. The Great Ganondorf catching his hand briefly, weakly, desperately. The Demon Thief dying with his name on his lips.

He remembered how cold was the voice of his beloved Princess.

He remembered her strange contempt for a pathetic man.

He remembered the unsettling shape of her regret.

He remembered the discordant note in his ears when she confessed the theft of his youth and seven years of tragedy for their country began because  _ she _ tried to control the Sacred Realm.

The desert man in black armor searched ceaselessly for the divine relic. His heart was not righteous enough to harness its full power. This much rang with truth, however tragic.

But  _ she _ , the divine maiden, the purest of hearts, the Princess of Destiny, was the one who sought to possess it. For reasons she never finished giving him.

She stopped when stone shivered. She told him Ganondorf used his last breath to command the collapse of the tower. She cursed the usurper king as they fled down crumbling stairs. She said he was using his shard of the Triforce to cheat death and transform himself into a giant beast.

In that moment, choice did not belong to him. Death snarled at them, and he raised the blessed sword to deny it. It was only after - only in endless long years of wandering in a world that knew nothing of his deeds, after facing gods and demons and corrupted spirits and grieving mortals that he saw truth in the crystalline memories. 

Ganondorf died, and  _ Ganon _ rose.

The curse on their descendents, the condemnation of their actions, the promise to return - Link still could not be sure which soul cried it as the seal of the sages bore down upon him. He knew the seal wasn’t perfect. He knew the timeriver divided, not once but many times. He knew somehow he’d found a way to move sideways through the current to wander threads where the sealing of Ganon - and maybe Ganondorf - had not stolen the six sages from the world as if they never existed.

He didn’t understand the why or how - but he knew Ganon was rising again, in this one.

The great temple was crumbling as his true enemies pulled power from the very stones to seize victory, to open the Spirit Gate and usher an ancient evil into his waiting host.

TwinRova was laughing. She was triumphant. She was complacent. She was  _ distracted _ .

He couldn’t see the trishul. 

He didn’t need it.

With a roar of fury he  _ reached _ \- and a deadly helix of rainbow light answered.

Step and twist. A deadly pirouette. The strange contentment of familiar weight in his hands, familiar bells in his ears, familiar power coursing through his bones. Magic and light poured from his twisted blade, crashing into the cruel fire and wicked ice of the ancient witches who fused their spirits into one to defy the Great Patterns. The unstoppable force of the divine sword flung her away from the central altar, tearing her talons from her son, her king, her prey.

She fell upon the western platform. He sprinted after her, touching the warm, spell-marked stone of the central altar. A part of his mind noticed the pulsing glyphs. A part of his mind noticed the terrifying absence of Ganondorf. 

A part of his mind noticed the falling slab of travertine.

He leapt too late.

Silence.

Link clawed at cracks in the stone, dragging himself into the open inch by agonizing inch. He could barely breathe. His skin was made of sharp and ache and burn. He tore the mask from his face and gasped for air. Some of the pressure relented. The pain did not.

The mask hovered in the air where he let go of it.

He craned his neck to look over his shoulder at the stone above him. It floated like the mask, scant inches above him. More inches then it had a few breaths ago. The body of a dead god was a tactical advantage, except when it really,  _ really _ wasn’t. 

His battered skin screamed defiance as he demanded it carry him out from under the rubble. Link sprawled on the gritty stones for an age, just trying to breathe. He wanted to see the field, mark his enemy, assure himself of his beloved. He couldn’t persuade himself to rise. Time was frozen in any case. Another breath, another wave of pain simply didn’t matter.

Eventually he tried to stretch, tried to measure the extent of his injuries. That’s when he found the little shattered branch in his gut. 

Slender. Whippy. Sticky with sap. Studded with tiny little leaf-buds. 

He pulled it out. He stared at the baffling shard of vibrant greenness, at the incongruity of a delicate pink-and-white apple blossom clinging to a bloody stick, at the eerie blue glitter clinging to it. 

The timebubble rose because of a broken apple bough striking the stone inside him. Somehow. In the depths of a corrupted temple in the farthest reaches of the Sand Sea.

“Why an  _ apple _ ?” He asked the dim and crumbling Spirit Gate.

Nothing in the frozen world could answer him. 

He struggled to his feet, leaning on the gold-hilted sword he found among the rubble. To the west, Ganondorf stood over TwinRova, pinning her between his twin swords. The bright rust-orange undulations of his sword-ribbons hung in the air. His arm was bloody. His eyes were bright. Black-pink-purple malice coiled in wicked tangles around him.

But he was still alive, and his eyes were still gold.

“Well  _ fuck _ ,” he grumbled at the world. He raked a hand through his grimy hair. He turned in a slow and painful circle, studying the Gate. He dragged himself to the edge of the altar to stare at the ever-so-slowly seeping tendrils of malice ensnaring Ganondorf. There was no way to reach him without touching the essence of evil first. “If Ganon gets into the timebubble, he’ll eat  _ everything _ . Forever.  _ Fuck _ . You said we had two weeks to solstice. Why is the Gate open early? You’re the tactician, not me-! How am I supposed to close and break it when he’s already  _ here _ ?”

Ganondorf did not answer. Could never have perceived his question.

The fate of the world once again rested in his hands alone. 

His bloody hands. With weird blue glitter staining his fingers where he’d touched the branch. He contorted to look down at the minor wound, baffled by the blue glitter wicking through his borrowed kurta. “That hasn’t happened before. Is applewood magic-?”

He dragged himself back across the main altar to recover the bloody little branchlet. Aside from the glitter it seemed in all ways a normal stick. Sharp where it had been broken from its parent branch, frayed where it scraped against travertine and rose granite as he clawed his way free of crumbling stone. Incised with a long furrow, crossed with notches. Some to left, some to right, some bisecting. In groups. Divided by a tiny divot.

In the way of signs in the Green. 

“But this isn’t a word,” he told the stick.

The carvings did not change.

“How do you learn music from books,” he murmured to the branch. He pivoted, gazing at his besieged lover, remembering a conversation in the woods, but unsure if it happened in this life or another. All he knew was Gan’s rich voice rumbling in his ears, sardonic, amused at his expense - and yet somehow fond and gentle as he explained the way his people preserved songs in weaving and in pictures and words. He’d never learned. He played by mimicking others, feeling the music in his blood. When he found a nonsense tangle of scratches in stone that Navi said was music, she’d sung for him. Gan never gave him answers like that. He gave puzzles, and he  _ taught _ . Gentle, yet firm. A ruthless taskmaster, yet tender and generous and indulgent in such subtle ways it was all too easy to miss.

Link tucked the branchlet in his belt and drew the ocarina from his pouch, reciting the letters to himself. He ghosted his fingers over magical bluestone, struggling to remember how Gan had painstakingly named the notes from the sacred flute at such a cost of personal discomfort to himself. 

Link played.

Halfway through the first phrase he realized it was the soaring song. He stopped, but the magic had already woken. The world was slowly bleeding of color, turning hazy blue white. Intense blue glitter poured from the little puncture in his gut. It swirled around him and formed a strange rune over his middle. He couldn’t see it very well, even tucking his chin to his chest. Feathers seemed to drift at the edges of his vision, but no whoosh of wings came for him.

He touched the rune.

Link turned in a daze, drinking in the riotous color of the tumbling spirals on the walls and the intense pulse of blue magic under his feet. The glorious mosaic laid across the floor of his tomb hid an enormous rune in colored tesserae with secret gilding underneath, and every one of them shone with the same glittery enchantment as lived inside him.

He leaned against his empty coffin and wept.

Gan built this place for him. Zelda built this place for him. He knew it. He didn’t  _ remember _ it - he knew nothing of its construction - it must have all happened after he died.

He could imagine only one other soul who held the secrets of soaring magic, who would know of secret places hidden under the castle and temples, who would be able to give him so many crates of light arrows. 

He couldn't fathom any other hand who would know how to seal and preserve every kind of magic in the world, who would lavish such beautifully subtle puzzles on a burial chamber, who would cultivate such deep and abiding faith in heroic destiny that he would provision a dead man with everything he might need to wage war against the Dark - and  _ win _ .

Who else would think to hide a timestone shard  _ inside _ his body?

Who else would inscribe it with a spell to carry him back to a tomb?

In the blurry fragment of a radiant and mournful Zelda, of a handsome old King bowing over him to growl with a gentle hand on his aching chest, he felt certain he remembered his last death. At peace. Beside a cheerful fire. The three of them in harmony.

And yet it wasn’t enough. Not for the gods - and not for him. 

How was it happiness to remember them begging him to  _ fight _ ?

His chest hurt. His heart hurt. He was alive again in a strange time, and Gan was ensnared, doomed, dying. And he was thousands of miles away in his own tomb, feeling sorry for himself and grieving a life he could barely glimpse. “Fight  _ what- _ ? What ravenous enemy did I leave you to, that you both put all your magic into sending my soul  _ here _ ?”

He babbled at the emptiness where his beloveds should be. Something terrible must have befallen that they would not be laid to rest beside him. Something terrible must have closed the path back to the Green again. Something truly terrible must have called him to  _ this _ time - and he didn’t even know how he would subdue his oldest true enemy without killing Gan in the process. Every smallest shard of happiness in his old lives whispered that there must be a way - but he couldn’t remember it. Only the hundred thousand ways he failed to find it.

Eventually he scraped together something vaguely like discipline, and searched the tomb for clues. He found no answers, only absurd wealth he didn’t need, legendary armaments he’d rejected for any number of reasons sixty days before, and more healing potions than he could count. He swallowed two of the latter, one red, one green, and stuffed a satchel full of every sort.

He chose the strongest scalemail they had left for him.

He layered the kitten-soft, pristine green tunic over it. He needed every talisman of courage he could scavenge, even if he didn’t feel heroic or worthy at all.

He buckled glowing spurs over earth-brown boots.

He reclaimed the enameled snake jewels with their green garnet eyes.

He hung a Gerudo quiver from his belt beside the gold-hilted sword and slung a golden warbow on his shoulder. 

He lifted the flute and sung himself through blue-white nothingness to the exact place he’d stood only moments ago, holding nothing but a bloody stick.

To his horror, time had passed after all.

Gan said it did, that the way he stopped time wasn’t truly a final cessation of celestial motion, but merely slowing it so much that the change was  _ nearly _ imperceptible to mortals in the moment.

Twinrova lay dead on the west platform. Ganondorf seemed frozen in the act of pacing the central altar. Yet even ice moved. Eventually. The knot of malice and rage and sorrow ensnaring him wound even tighter around him now. His golden eyes began to tarnish.

“I will  _ not _ lose you this way,” snarled Link, nocking an arrow and sighting at a fat glimmer of red in a tendril reaching for the cursed king.

It was a terrible fight.

Three arrows leapt from his string to hover in the air from different angles. He circled, seeking a place he might be able to sever another tendril by blade, but even with the winged spurs, Ganon’s winding briars of malice coiled too high for him. More seemed to be emerging along the north edges of the Gate, so he moved to the north platform for a better vantage and readied a few incendiaries.

He dropped the song.

“Replenish me, and I will see what may be done to buy time for more of the ritual,” said Ganondorf to the swelling evil, his voice cold and cruel.

Link hurled the little explosives as two of the arrows found their mark, shredding the node of one and  _ only _ one tendril.

“Who said anything about tricks?” Ganondorf sneered at the roaring void. “I can’t climb out of here in ten minutes.”

Stone shattered, the noise lost under the grind and cry and crash of the rest of the temple collapsing on its own. The malice remained.

Link lifted the warbow again, every muscle straining against the massive draw of it. Three, five, seven more tendrils struck down before they could add their poison to the barbed darkness winding around Ganondorf.

“I have nothing left to lose and everything to gain from this alliance,” said Ganondorf with a cruel laugh. “I am a War King. I choose death.”

“No,” breathed Link, stunned by Ganondorf’s surrender to the shadows and the answering corrupt blossom of sticky, slimy, black-purple-pink miasma under his feet. Deadly vapors  _ had _ no nodes to target.

The crumbling shrine trembled with terrible laughter as the Demon King rose on the fetid air, his eyes red. 

“ _ No _ ,” howled Link.

Ganondorf ignored him, uttering some strange and frightening syllable in the fell tongue of demons.

Link sprinted across the room to the main altar, but he was too late. Ganondorf hovered high above it, completely shrouded in darkness. He loosed a golden arrow at the center of the Spirit Gate high above, his arms and shoulders screaming at him in agony. He couldn’t keep using the bow in this body.

Nothing changed anyway. So a few tendrils evaporated. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. He was too slow. The sacred bluestone could no longer help him.

Link snatched up the divine mask and thrust it onto his face.

The pain was terrible.

“Destroy whatever pipsqueak interrupted my Work,” snarled Ganondorf from somewhere in the blue-white agony of his transformation. “ _ Take care of it  _ \- I must begin the spell anew.”

Link drew his most terrible weapon, still trembling and weak from the pain. He could not afford to give this body time to smother it. He raised the rainbow helix blade high. He brought it down in a deadly arc. Wind and light and color poured from the divine sword, slicing through the miasma. 

Red blood fell in a fine mist.

Not enough to be a fatal strike.

_ Maybe _ .

Link roared in rage, slicing his weapon through the deadly fog, carving a horizon in the shattering stones beyond. A column toppled.

Ganondorf uttered another thundering Word.

If he could not end it swiftly, they would both be crushed and Ganon would win anyway.

“Give me the Power I bloody well asked for,” roared Ganondorf in the darkness.

Link pivoted, casting deadly magic at every snarl of advancing miasma, destroying the remaining incantations carved into the walls, striking jewels and gilded ornaments from their mountings, struggling to destroy the Gate as Ganondorf embraced the Dark.

Word after Word.

Remaking himself into the Enemy. 

Surrendering his freedom for the immeasurable power of Ganon.

The Enemy shaped for Himself a form of pure darkness in the shadows below Ganondorf. His shape was void, his sword was void, his shield was void.

Red eyes and sharp white teeth in the darkness as the shadow form stepped forward to deny a god of war his prey.

Link brought the rainbow helix sword down in another skyward strike, casting another wave of power perilously near Ganondorf.

More blood fell.

The shadow fighter mirrored his attack perfectly, though his form flickered like a candleflame before a breeze.

“ **I will win** ,” said Link, raising his terrible blade to third guard. “ **I always win.** ”


	17. Gentleness - 2 of ?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how long this virtue is going to take us. Honest.

Late morning sunlight glowed upon the placid white sands where the Eye of Strata used to glare from the heart of massive, deadly storms of black wind. It was perversely quiet, no sound in the world but the gentle kiss of the wind settling down for a nap under the rising midday warmth, the soft snuffling snore of Asifad drowsing in the thin shade of a few dessicated palm trees, and the raspy breath of his beloved in his arms.

“Link,” whispered Gan, one golden eye cracked open and darting frenetically, as if searching for him. His other eye was veiled in blood, unable to open.

“ **I am here,** ” murmured Link, kneeling to lay the man on the pristine sands.

“No,” whispered Gan, clutching weakly at his arm. His black arming suit was shredded despite the spells and the hidden steel rings in the quilting. The less said of his leather armor the better. Too much of his blood glimmered with unsettling rainbow light, as if it clung to him where it had cut him instead of Ganon. “Link. Link.”

“ **I am here** ,” repeated Link, pressing his hand cautiously and withdrawing. He was afraid to hurt him by accident. He poured blue healing potion over Ganondorf’s chest. He tossed away the empty bottle and tried vainly to smooth the viscous healing concoction into the worst places.

Ganondorf turned his head, peering past him with his one eye at the heap of rubble that was once a temple. “Link.”

“ **It is over. I banished him. You are safe now.** ”

Ganondorf closed his eye. Sighed his name again.

“ **No - do not-!** ” Link cried, seizing his sharp jaw in hand to wake him up. His heart cried that if Gan fell asleep now he would never awaken. “ **Stay, jatheli. Hold on just a little longer. I need to cut the cloth away to pour more potions on.** ”

Spent as he was, Gan snorted bitterly, repeating the Geld’o word with a sneer. Ganondorf could not abide sentiment. In every life Link could remember, he felt the same: of all things he despised, he hated weakness in himself the most, and all  _ feeling _ was a weakness to him.

Link worked as quickly as he dared, cutting the destined king of evil out of his armor piece by agonizing piece, drenching him in potions that refused to work fast enough. Something in the light magic of the arrows and the rainbow sword damaged him too deeply. The white sands turned pink beneath them, then red, then black.

Gan was running out of time.

“ **We need a miracle,** ” murmured Link, pulling away.

“Link - no,” rasped Gan, groping vainly towards him, his one golden eye flaring in raw panic. That open admission of fear and need and longing only underscored how precarious his dance with Death.

Link hardened himself against it, striking the ocarina against steel to stop time as much as possible. A fragment of memory whispered that it was dangerous to do it this way, but he couldn’t remember why. Nor could he care. He looked down at his dying beloved, frozen in the act of reaching for him, terrified to die alone. “ **Three have mercy on us - let me be fast enough to save him.** ”

Zelda screamed in terror when he seized her hand in the throne room of Hyrule Castle. He trapped her under divine hands, commanding her to silence. It took several body-minutes to persuade her to shut up long enough to hear him. Most people froze when confronted by a bloody war god, but not Zelda.

“ **You are the Sacred Maiden. You have magic.** **_And you owe me a debt._ ** ”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, spirit. By what oath of my ancestors do you seek to hold me?”

“ **By the very oaths that give you the crown of Light, I demand your aid, daughter of Hylia. Our beloved sacrificed much to preserve your world from doom and destruction. You** **_will_ ** **come with me, and you** **_will_ ** **work miracles on his mortal form,** **_or you will not like what I do_ ** **.** ”

“Who are you? What are you talking about?  _ Beloved? _ Fah! I have no consort - I am  _ Queen _ and sole sovereign here,” she cried in defiance, struggling against his grasp.

“ **In another life, you once understood how to love, Destined Heir of Wisdom,** ” said Link sadly. “ **_I_ ** **remember, even if you cannot. I am the Hero. I am the hopes and dreams of every life that balances on the edge of a blade. I am Chosen of the Gods, as** **_you_ ** **are Chosen, as** **_he_ ** **is Chosen, and you will come with me.** **_Now._ ** ”

She stared at him, frowning in bafflement.

“ **Do you need any tool or potion to aid your healing powers?** ”

She shook her head no.

He stood back, placing one of her hands on his wrist. “ **Do not let go.** ”

“Where are you taking me-? Why? Who is this third? Prophecy speaks of only two. Sacred Maiden and Pure-hearted Hero.”

Link lifted the ocarina without bothering to answer.

Blue-white light embraced them.

Zelda stumbled when the magic dropped them on white sand. Partly because he was much taller, and the magic in his hands placed  _ his _ feet on the ground. She gasped in horror, staring wide-eyed at the bespelled dying man. She pointed a trembling hand at him.

Link cursed, dismayed to notice Gan’s raised hand now barely a thumb’s length off the ground. He dared not grant the hopeless wish. Touch would bring Gan into frozen time, and it might not be enough. “ **Heal him.** ”

“Blessed Three above - this is no  _ Chosen _ , but a monster! A killer!”

“ **No less than you** ,” snapped Link. “ **What have you done in this life to repay Nayru’s Love? What justice have you wrought in the mortal world to honor Nayru’s Order? Yes, the Chosen of Din is harsh and furious in his passion. Swift and absolute judgment cannot encompass the whole circumstance driving** **_anyone’s_ ** **choices. His deeds honor She Who Shaped the Red Earth as he fought his whole life to shape the world towards balance. I have fought in not one life but thousands to stand against the True Dark, to preserve the flourishing of** **_all_ ** **mortal life, not just the favored of Hylia, and Farore strengthens me. She gives me the truth: where he sought the Triforce to resist an ancient demon,** **_you_ ** **seek it to control divine power and force the fealty of great spirits. Mortals are flawed and fallible, you no less than him.** ”

“Blessed Lady of Light,” she murmured in horror and shock.

“ **Time is short.** **_Heal him._ ** ”

Zelda breathed a prayer and with her hand still resting on Link’s wrist as he’d commanded, she moved hesitantly towards Gan. She knelt, obliging him to kneel also. She raised her free hand in benediction - but it was not enough. She said she could not call on the healing light spirits sworn to her without proper form. She would need both her hands.

Link would have to drop the spell.

He sighed, and pulled the divine mask from his face in a flash of blue-white light, returning to his own very mortal body. She would not obey him out of fear in this form.

She exclaimed in surprise, taken aback by the change.

“ _ Please _ Zelda. Work a miracle,” he said softly. He dropped her hand. He dropped the spell. He reached for Gan, nestling one hand in his and laying the other over his heart, where the fierce thrum of his life pulsed unsteady and weak. Death hovered at their side, far too close. “The pattern  _ is _ fraying - but I am here, my love.”

“Link,” gasped Gan, a faint and trembling curl tugging at his bloody lips, as if he tried to smile in his last moments, as if somehow relieved to see a man instead of a god at his side.


	18. Gentleness - 3 of ?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Politics, snark, violence, ~~mild~~ smut, we've got it all.

Time passed.

Little or much, Link could not care. All that mattered was the next breath. The next beat. The warmth under Gan’s bloody skin. The fluttering of his more-or-less good eye. The soft, muffled moans of pain as Zelda reluctantly poured healing power over her nemesis.

At last Gan shivered and fell quiet. At last his breath steadied, strengthened. At last, he gained the strength to turn, to cough dark blood and scowl about it. He laid his head down again and gathered wind for a sardonic rumble.

“I believe I owe you some thanks for shouldering this little inconvenience, my Queen.”

Zelda scowled down at him, brushing stray magic from her white-gloved hands. “Don’t flatter yourself, bandit king. I’m only here because this  _ boy _ dragged me here at swordpoint.”

Link rolled his eyes, bowing to bring Gan’s hand close enough to kiss. “Pretty sure I left childhood behind a few centuries ago, Zelda.”

She frowned deeply. “Who  _ are _ you-?”

“I am the Hero,” he said with a shrug, his heart stuttering when Gan pressed his hand in return - small and subtle, easy to miss. On purpose. To protect himself from ridicule and pain. To remain steadfast and self-sufficient and stoic, always. “How do you feel jatheli rajena?”

Gan winced, his golden eye avoiding both of them. “ _ Hylians.  _ Your pronunciation remains abysmal. I do feel a  _ bit _ underdressed, but as I’m not in any mood to conjure better, you’ll both have to overlook it for the morning. Afternoon. Whatever.”

“We will consider it only if you tell me what the  _ fuck _ made you think you have any rights or authority to issue judgments in  _ my _ country?”

“I am the gods-chosen King of the Golden People, Blessed of Din, Guardians of Spirit,” rumbled Gan with a wry grin entirely at odds with his tenuous health. “Weighing the souls who cross the veil is  _ by definition _ my prerogative. I assure you the debts I collected two moons ago were known to me for  _ years, _ but in respect of your wishes I withheld my judgment as long as I could, my queen.”

“They were still  _ my subjects _ ,” she snapped. “And you had best curtail your insults or I will find a way to unweave the healing I was just forced to give you.”

Link growled. Zelda ignored him.

Gan-?  _ Chuckled _ . Half-dead and half-naked, bloody and raw, his right eye still sealed shut with congealed blood. “Tell me how your beloved uncle felt about that.”

“I was dealing with it  _ myself _ , in my own time,” she growled. 

Gan snorted and spat more blood on the white sands. “As you dealt with widespread fraud and roads crawling with petty footpads? As you dealt with pressed labor and magical experiments on convenient criminals? As you dealt with year after year of blood feuds and border skirmishes and rampant greed distorting prices to absurd proportions?”

“Shut up,” she snapped, folding her arms. “In civilized countries, these things are a  _ process _ . You have no authority in Hyrule, Ganondorf.”

“No? I have the Golden Legions,” he said with a wry grin, reclaiming his hand to lace his fingers together over his chest. “And the unhallowed dead. And the ancestors. And the earth. And the storm. And every fucking tribe of demonkin in the world. Last I checked, these things were  _ awfully _ useful to keeping your degenerate country in line, my queen.”

“Stop saying that,” she snapped. “I do not and will not  _ ever _ belong to you.”

Link poured a little spring water on his wadded silk sash, praying it was clean enough to do no harm. He clicked and gestured, urging Gan to turn toward him so Link could wash his face. Their petty argument didn’t matter. She had used her power to heal him. Ganon was banished. Twinrova was defeated. Ganondorf was alive and whole and  _ himself _ . That was the only thing that mattered.

“As you wish it, my dear Zelda.”

Zelda groaned in frustration, her gloved hands curving into furious claws. “You insufferable creature - if you hadn’t hooked some sourcerous control tether in this glittering killer I swear by the light I would tear your fucking throat-”

“Such  _ promises _ ,” rumbled Ganondorf, somewhat marred by the damp rasp in his throat. “Do not mistake my intentions for some overblown, lustful fantasy. As my faithful champion so conveniently chose to fetch  _ you _ when I sent him for a healer, we might as well speak frankly. In offering you my hand, I seek only to honor the customs of your country and advance the interests of both of our people in the wake of this… little season of rebalancing.”

“What,” Zelda returned flatly.

Link gently rubbed away the sanguine veils from his beloved’s flesh, moving cautiously towards Gan’s closed eye. He worked to unstick his long, kohl-stained lashes and clear away the blood and grime from his delicate eyelid.

“You may hold Hyrule alone for now, but all the wisdom in the world will not preserve her if you lack the power to enforce your laws. Power which  _ I _ have, and graciously offer to support your little projects.”

“If,” she said, perfect brow arched high.

“Coquetry doesn’t suit you my queen. I speak of marriage in the Hylian style.”

“Never-!”

“Ah, well then, if you had prefer a romantic courtship I should be  _ delighted _ to-”

Zelda interrupted him with a strangled sound of horror.

Link choked back one of his own as he coaxed Gan’s right eye open. Still present, and again whole, but the brilliant gold was tarnished and faded, the pupil drawn so tight it was nearly imperceptible. A milky white arc with rainbow undertones clouded iris and sclera. Nor could Gan seem to keep his eye open long or steadily. There could be no doubt his own blade destroyed his sight. “Oh jatheli, I’m so sorry.”

Gan ignored him. “Very well, a properly loveless Hylian state marriage it is. Feel free to arrange the traditional little parties and insipid rituals as you see fit, and when your council or peers or whoever require personal proof of your engagement, you have only to summon me, and I shall fly to your side at once, my queen.”

“Goddess bright you’re  _ serious _ ,” she cried, squeaking more than a bit.

“Deadly so. You need what I have, and I want what you have. The very foundations of good trade. Without  _ me _ as your living king, you will make precious little headway persuading the Golden Legions to obey your petty laws, or the demonkin to stand down. Without  _ my _ magic to repair and stabilize the damages wrought by centuries of war, I assure you Hyrule  _ will _ fracture further and wither to the very root.”

“Do you think I would ever willingly lie down in the chains of a monster?”

“Fear no such inconvenience, my Queen. I have no need to pin your belly to the floor to assure you of heirs.” Gan smiled up at her, but it was not a nice smile. Link ached to see his pain, and marveled that Zelda seemed oblivious to it. “Do you want a lush, stable, and unified Hyrule or not?”

Zelda made a face of pure disgust, leaning away from him. “How  _ dare _ you?”

“I am King,” he said, lifting his chin with pride, as if he hadn’t just been dancing with Death ten minutes ago. “Yes or no, Zelda.”

She gestured helplessly, struggling with fear and horror and disgust for the wounded king so cavalierly proposing to her in the middle of a blasted wasteland.

Link sighed, folding his damp and soiled scarf. “I am not a healer, and it is hard to tell with - so many wounds. Is he healed enough for rain, Zelda?”

She turned to stare at him in baffled silence. 

Gan laughed, coughing up a little more dark blood. “Did you not know our Champion commands the heavens? Make it rain for her, little hero.”

“Are you sure it won’t hurt?” Link set aside the scarf, letting his hand drift to the bluestone flute in his pouch.

Gan snorted. “Play your little spell.”

So he did.

A single line without repeat, to summon the gentlest of sunshowers. Not enough to fill the little hollow that was once an oasis, but enough to soften the harsh air, enough to help him wash his beloved clean of the battle. Zelda surprised him by helping Ganondorf out of the shredded remains of his armor when Link began to struggle with his weight. She seemed mollified by the gentle rain somehow. She went a step farther, offering her cloak to drape him with so he need not keep any of the ruined and bloody kit. On him, even wrapped sideways, it was little more than a longish kilt. Gan seemed more comfortable dressed even so roughly and on his feet again. He propped a folded arm on Link’s shoulder in a deceptively casual pose. 

Link made a concerted effort to pretend he wasn’t bearing near half Gan’s weight. His pride seemed ridiculous given that Zelda surely knew in intimate detail how very deep his wounds. “We shouldn’t fight anymore.”

Zelda scoffed.

“Hn,” said Gan.

“I’m  _ serious _ ,” pleaded Link. “The war is stupid. The more you fight, the more people will do bad things. Peace is more than one person, Zelda. The triforce won’t fix it either, not for good. Killing  _ isn’t _ good,  _ and also _ the king was a bad man. It’s done, and can’t be undone in this time. We just - have to do better from here. Ok?”

She crossed her arms with a huff of annoyance. “Very well. In respect of the Chosen of Farore, we will present your offer to the Council. That’s all. If they agree to consider it, we will begin negotiations of a proper contract. Labrynna has been pressing their suit most agressively. Until then, you keep your army in line, and I’ll do the same for mine. If I hear of so much as  _ one raid _ -”

“I do not accept your terms. Hylians lie as easy as breathing,” rumbled Gan.

“Don’t,” said Link before Zelda could voice her objection. “The war has been bad for everyone. Give people time to heal.”

Zelda scowled. “We will consider it. Keep your hands to yourself, and keep yourself on your side of the border, bandit king. My servants will handle any necessary correspondence.”

Gan snorted in derision.

Zelda didn’t bother answering, but summoned the soaring magic herself, and vanished.

“You have an interesting idea of diplomacy, little hero,” rumbled Ganondorf. He glanced down his long nose, golden eye bright with mischief and wicked mirth. 

Link sighed. “How are you  _ really _ , jatheli?”

“Jacheli’v,” corrected Gan. “Pity the oasis is a ruin.”

“I can fix that, I think. If you don’t mind being frozen a little while I work.”

Gan hummed, squinting at the dry oasis and dessicated palm trees where Asifad drowsed, indifferent to the actions of humans. “Would you really have killed her for me?”

“Maybe,” confessed Link in a whisper, ducking his head. “There  _ is _ another way to change what happened - but - at great cost to everyone. I am sorry I cut you. I was trying to get only  _ Him,  _ but it was hard. I want nothing of a world where I fail you and the darkness wins. The risk of body-hurt seemed - less bad than leaving you to disaster and ruin just so  _ I _ can start over.”

“Hn,” said Gan, and nothing else.

“Here, can you reach the tree to lean on, so I can make shelter? I will help.”

Gan didn’t answer in words, but turned toward the ruin, proud as ever.

Building shelter was harder than he thought. The stones of the ancient oasis arches were too shattered and wind-scoured to stack easily, and he didn’t want to use much of the fallen temple, in case the stones themselves were corrupted. He soared to the edge of the great woods a hundred times, hefting fallen trees on the shoulders of a dead god. He cleaved hollow logs, anchoring them in heaped ancient stones to create a crude little round house. He stole an iron stove from an abandoned cottage in Kakariko, along with a whole cord of seasoned ash to feed it. He considered trying to mix adobe to seal the outside against the chance of windstorms and the notice of desert beasts, but Gan was slumping hard against the tree, his eyes closed. Too many minutes snuck past the magic while he worked. 

So he soared away to Castletown and stole as much bedding and food as he could shove in a milk wagon, and carried the entire thing away to the desert. He cut it apart to make a bed of the one half, and a trough for Asifad with the other.

Gan startled when he dropped the spell and touched his arm. He frowned at the little house, and then at Link. “The  _ fuck _ is that.”

“ **A tree helped in the battle, trees can help afterwards also.** ”

“What.”

“ **An applewood stick stabbed me during the fight.** ”

“ _ What _ .”

“ **I do not know how the magic works. Let it be enough that I learned of the soaring rune in time to defeat the Dark. Will you be angry if I carry you there?”**

Gan made a rude noise and pushed away from the dead palm tree, his rejection clear. “I’m not sure  _ angry _ is the right word. Why in the hell didn’t you just fetch a campaign tent?”

“ **A what?** ”

Gan stared at him, pausing mid-stride. “I - don’t even know where to begin with that. Did I teach you  _ nothing _ in my other lives?”

“ **When you would go to war, we are divided by it.** ”

“Fair,” said Gan with a shake of his head, and a determined step away.

“ **Pride is as deadly as Greed, desert king. Lean on me, at least. You were badly hurt.** ”

Gan offered only a noncommittal grunt in answer. He pretended to a casual stride. He tried to hide the painful limp. He held his chin high, and he acted like his olive-brown skin wasn’t a webwork of lacerations and gouges.

Link walked beside him, tensed and ready to catch him if he stumbled. He persuaded Gan to sit on the makeshift bed, and he persuaded him to accept a bottle of milk. He offered bread and ripe pears, and offered to soar away to the fortress to steal Gerudo honey cakes.

Gan would barely even look at him. He held up a hand for silence when Link pressed him to eat again. “Let it go, hero. There’s no use wasting it.”

“ **I brought potions also.** ”

Gan winced. “No. Not right now. Let’s not add any more momentum to Zelda’s haphazard - or maybe half-trained - efforts on my behalf. I don’t - I need time to meditate on - how to work with this.”

“ **You do not have the strength to work magic on yourself. You almost died.** ”

“I noticed,” returned Gan with a snort. He passed a hand over his face, cautious around the half-healed gouges. He kept his golden eyes averted. “Stop staring. Please.”

Link stepped back, startled. The great king.  _ Asking _ . For anything. “ **I want to help** .  **Tell me how I can help, jacheli.** ”

Gan shook his head ever so little. “Which is your real face, Hero? Are you the ghost of a god with a mortal seeming, or a man invoking the remains of a dead divinity?”

“ **I am a man. Or I** **_was_ ** **a man, once. I do not know how magic works. Does it matter?** ”

“In the Great Pattern? Probably not. It - just - it matters to me,” said Gan, staring vaguely in the direction of the little stove. “I saw the death-mask trapped under stones.”

“ **The applewood called the timebubble too late to avoid them. I could not crawl free in this body. I saw how bad it would become, and that is when I learned the soaring rune from the stone inside me and the song on the apple-stick. I am sorry if you still do not like this face even without your illusion on it anymore - but with it I am stronger. I can lift you. I can help. If moldorm or molgera come, I can drive them away faster. I can protect you, jacheli’v rajena.** ”

Gan sighed. “Maybe I don’t want protection.”

“ **What** **_do_ ** **you want? If it is in my power-** ”

“Your true face.”

Link stared at him, baffled, but he offered no further explanation. So Link pulled the mask off, surrendering his power for short stature and annoyingly finite stamina and fleshly needs and a voice so much smaller than Ganondorf ever was. “I am here.”

Gan’s golden eyes fixed on him, one bright, one clouded. For a long moment he held the silence, allowing no trace of his thoughts to surface.

“If you won’t eat, maybe you should lay-”

“I thought I’d lost you,” interrupted Gan softly.

Link tipped his head in confusion, shocked by the almost-confession of sentiment from the lips of the destined Evil King. “You will never lose me. I will always be here. Even if you cannot see me, I am here. Even without anything else, we are connected as Chosen of the Three, our fates bound together through  _ that which you desire most _ . Forever. In all times.”

“What if we weren’t?” Gan rumbled, soft and low, his good eye too bright.

“Then - I might never have known you,” confessed, scuffing his boots on the uneven floor he’d made of armfuls of pebbles and tiny rubble to fill the cracks between ancient stones. “Maybe you would have had a happier life, without the mark of the gods. Maybe the witches wouldn’t have turned to the bad, or at least maybe they wouldn’t have hurt you, if you were just - another Gerudo, without any magic, and without being The King. Maybe you’d have had a quiet life and - nicer, better, smarter lovers among your own people. Maybe the forest would have turned me away when there was no longer any pretending I was a Kokiri. Maybe I would have met Malon eventually, and maybe she would have liked me even if I wasn’t a hero. I don’t know. I have no memory of any time like that.”

“Hn,” said Gan.

Link drew a deep breath, and forced himself to meet Gan’s gaze again. He couldn’t make his hands stay still. His blood thrummed with the urge to  _ fight _ something, but there was nothing  _ to _ fight. “I don't  _ want _ to know it, either. It’s  _ horribly _ selfish. And I can’t change it. Even with everything bad that happened between us in other times - to imagine a life without any chance of knowing you at all - it feels like a terrible sharp emptiness - like going hungry for days - just to  _ think _ about it.”

Gan studied him in the quiet, his good eye searching his face, his clouded one drooping half-closed. “How is it  _ possible _ that a hero of legend could allow his loyalty to his country and even his own happiness be outweighed by  _ sentiment _ for a monstrous thing?”

Link closed the space between them, threading his fingers into his beloved’s short, fiery hair, making him meet his gaze, willing him to hear the truth. “You are  _ not _ a monster, Rajenaya. You are not what has been done to you.”

Gan snorted, trying to pull away. That he could not fairly screamed of his vulnerability in the wake of the terrible injuries he suffered in the battle to free him from Ganon. “Nonetheless. I am  _ Ganondorf Dragmire _ \- I am the Great King, the Demon Thief - and  _ I am what I have done _ .”

“Under great duress, jatheli. How many real choices have you had? Have  _ any _ of us had? The design of the gods is not a kind one, even less when we seek to change it. Memory says you too make different choices when you have true allies, when you know different things, or know things earlier. I  _ am _ sorry I did not awaken earlier, that the battle was so terrible, that I hurt  _ you _ in fighting  _ Him _ . Whatever name or crown you choose to wear, you are still a  _ man _ , and I will still love you, even if the worst fate comes for us in the end.”

“Ja _ chel _ i’v, little hero.” Gan corrected, settling a hand at his waist. He shook his head, and his golden gaze slid away to the middle distance above his right shoulder. “You have a soft heart, little hero. Mother of Sands grant it does not one day prove a deadly weakness.”

Link shook his head, petting Gan’s hair carefully. “I assure you - I  _ always _ win, desert king. Now, please  _ jacheli’v _ \- stop with the stubborn and let me take care of you. If you do not like this food, I can use the soaring song to bring you other things, now that the black wind is gone. Only tell me what you want, and it is yours.”

Gan snorted, a refusal somewhere between sardonic and bitter. “Would you kiss a demon then-?”

Link sighed. “I will kiss  _ you _ . If you like.”

“ _ I do like _ ,” murmured Gan, his golden eyes narrowing to mere slivers.

Link propped a knee on the edge of the makeshift wagon-bed for balance. He leaned close. Softened his lips to press gently against the dear little delicate folds beside Gan’s good eye. And to brush lightly over the fluttering lid. And to mark his brow just above the cut marring the bridge of his nose. And to just ever so slightly graze the fine strong thrust of his sharp nose, even at the risk of prodding a hidden bruise.

Gan seemed to be trembling in his hands, probably from exhaustion, his breathing shallow and fast.

Link kissed his cheek again and again, choosing his targets carefully, threading between the many mournful cuts from shattering light arrows and stray gusts of deadly rainbow brilliance from the helix sword. He kissed his sharp jaw and the soft lobe of his ear. He resisted the strange temptation to bite the dramatic ridge of his much thicker, shorter, more subtly pointed ears that never moved with the rest of his expression, when he allowed any to show at all.

At last, Link brought his lips to meet that broad, honeyed softness, careful -  _ so careful _ \- not to disturb the puckered split marring one side, another injury  _ he _ put there, howsoever unintentional.

Gan whimpered.

Link jerked back, flooded with stinging guilt for hurting him  _ again _ . He tried to begin an apology.

Gan seized his waist in both hands and pulled him off-balance. Slid his vast hands up his back to crush him to his chest. Covered his mouth with his own, completely, without regard to his injuries. Kissed him, and  _ kissed _ him, deep, long, his tongue heavy with spice and salt and copper. He winced and moaned and whimpered with pain, yet he pushed himself to give another kiss, and another, and another, passionate beyond anything he could remember or even imagine.

“Careful - oh Gan, you will hurt yourself,” Link gasped when he could, breathless in the slender half-seconds between ardent kisses. 

“Don’t care,” rumbled Gan onto his lips, winding his arms tight, sliding one hand up to cradle the back of his neck and pin him in place to kiss him  _ again _ .

“ _ I _ care,” countered Link, gasping for wind, shoving away the inconvenient tremor of arousal coiling through his gut. “Stubborn. You must rest. Heal. Recover.”

“Must  _ nothing _ ,” growled Gan, twisting and pulling and tumbling them both into the heap of matresses and cushions and blankets Link had stolen. He trapped Link under him, a simple pin, a heavy embrace. Gan returned his kisses with interest, shifting his grasp to caress him from neck to knee.

It was glorious.

“You are beautiful in green,” murmured Gan against his skin.

Link bit his lip and whined in torment.

Gan chuckled at him, low and dark. He nuzzled against his ear, soft and ticklish, dropping another sensual kiss against his jaw. 

Within moments it became nearly impossible to remember he was supposed to resist. The way Gan  _ moved _ , the  _ sounds _ he was making in the back of his throat - Link knew with a part of himself that it must be a sign of pain so deep that even his lifelong discipline couldn’t fully smother it, but some selfish, treacherous hunger said the hiss and moan and whimper and growl of the king rose from desire. His skin burned under the touch, and froze in its absence. Layers of wool and fine scalemail between them only mattered in that he hated them for muting the glorious feeling of his strong hands. 

“My pretty little Champion,” rumbled Gan, his broad fingers digging into his tunic as if he might tear it asunder. But he didn’t. He let it go, and stroked his hand down Link’s chest, wide and flat and strong, possessive and yet tender.

The more reasonable side of him said he should be thankful for the armor, for the thick tunic and heavy trews. The reasonable side of him said without their protection he would surely fall to temptation. The reasonable side of him said he should leverage that little bit of distance to stop everything before Gan opened his wounds again.

Link didn’t care much for the  _ reasonable _ voice.

“Gan please - you shouldn’t do this. You will only hurt more, and I am not a healer-!”

“Mmfine,” rumbled Gan against his neck. He slipped a hand around Link’s thigh just above his knee, pressing the flesh like he would push his legs apart in the next breath.

Link’s face burned in shame for the visceral thrill reverberating in his core at the suggestion of possible pleasures to come. He wrestled the hunger down, summoning the terrible image of Gan’s condition mere hours ago as a shield, as a source of strength to force the words from his tongue. “Oh no -  _ no _ . You mustn’t.  _ Rajolaan. _ Stop. You  _ must _ stop.”

Gan froze, panting for breath, his wide lips swollen and wet from the kissing.

“Please, listen to me. This isn’t good for you,” pleaded Link.

Gan said nothing, still frozen in the act of shifting his weight. As if he truly had intended to move from lip-kisses to sex-kisses in spite of his delicate condition.

“I’m sorry.” Link reached to brush his hair again. 

This time Gan flinched away. He shifted his weight back, releasing Link’s thigh. “You used the Geld’o.”

Link frowned, propping himself up on his elbows. “I needed to be sure you heard me.”

“I did not teach you-”

“Not in this time. I remember from long ago, you told me the mean word other ilmaha threw at you. I know that’s why you chose it.”

“Ah,” said Gan, pulling farther away, wincing in pain as he moved.

“Please jatheli - you see? Already you have hurt yourself. If I let you keep touching me, I will go crazy. I want you  _ so much _ and it’s  _ hard _ to stop, but I can’t bear it, if you keep hurting yourself seeking pleasures I am already fighting to stop thinking about.”

Gan bowed his head and looked away, as if he was in some small way capable of shame. He worked his jaw as if he needed to chew his words first. “Ja _chel_ i'v, Link. It isn’t  _ about _ sex.”

“Ok,” said Link, shifting to offer his hand in truce. “You’re still doing more than is good for you. I will still be here tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and the day after that, as long as you will have me. We can dance when you are better. Ok?”

Gan moved his lips but couldn’t seem to make words come forth.

“Please, Gan. Have mercy on your body. Give yourself time to heal. Come here, rest. Will you let me hold your hand while you rest?”

Gan looked up at him with a frown. “You said the word.”

“Yes. For  _ you _ . Because I have the skin-hunger  _ very badly _ and I  _ don’t _ want to stop. But I know your Will is stronger and more practiced than mine in these things. So I said it to get your help keeping you safe.”

Gan shook his head slowly, as if baffled. He gestured incomprehensibly and let himself drop heavily onto his side. After a long moment he heaved a great sigh. “This cloak is  _ itchy _ .”

Link laughed. “So unpin it. Or I can, if you like.”

“And then I will be naked.”

“I don’t mind,” said Link with what he hoped was a saucy tone. He toyed with the high collar of his own shirt. “I can call the big storm to fill the oasis and feed the stove one more time if you like - and then maybe I will be  _ very _ tired of wearing steel.”

“I know _ I  _ am,” grumbled Gan. “Tired of you wearing it, I mean.”

“Maybe I will decide I am tired of wool too.”

Gan snorted in wry amusement, his good eye shifting to light on him once more.

“And  _ maybe _ , you know, if the linen gets wet, it will need hung to dry too.”

“Then  _ you _ will be naked,” rumbled Gan, the tip of his tongue darting across his lips. 

Link raised a brow and scoffed. “There will still be  _ blankets _ .”

Gan’s snort of amusement turned into a strange kind of low giggle. He clapped a hand over his mouth to keep it in, but that only seemed to make it funnier to him.

So Link crawled to his side and offered a kiss to make it better.

The mere idea made him laugh harder still.

Link made kissy faces at him, provoking him farther. A part of him said he shouldn’t, but the rich sound of Gan’s mirth was too wonderful. Even if the cause was completely ridiculous. Stripping them both to the skin to embrace under stolen blankets in the middle of a magic rainstorm wasn’t sexy anymore, it was  _ funny _ .

And that was, somehow, wonderful.


	19. Gentleness - 4 of ?

They stayed at the ancient oasis for three days, doing nothing much. Sleeping, soaking in the sun and the renewed waters, eating simply, tending Asifad, sleeping again. Gan accepted green potion after their first nap, and a little food. He touched Link more often than not, petting his hair or his shoulder, his thigh or his back. He wanted many kisses, and he wanted Link in his arms when the pain flared. He didn’t want to talk very much. He didn’t like to notice Link looking at him, and seemed far more comfortable in the shadows and at night. He did not seek sex again, and proved indifferent when Link tentatively caressed him that way, so he bit his tongue on the offer of pleasures Gan wouldn’t need to move for, and wondered if stopping him had been the wrong thing. 

On the second day, Gan began working small magics on himself. It was hard to see any difference, except in his exhaustion after casting. Gan said he was sculpting things inside, and fusing cracks in his bones. He’d been forced to take many blows from the Iron Knuckles to maintain the deception, and despite the protections spells woven into his armor, he claimed the limp and most of the pain flares seeded there, not in the battle inside the SpiritGate.

Link wasn’t sure he believed that at all.

On the fourth morning, he used a very great deal of magic to summon fresh clothing from his treasury. Not only did he drink a whole vial of green elixir after, but he fell into a deep slumber until after the hour of madness. It was strange and unsettling to see him so drained and vulnerable day after day. So Link agreed to fashion a sled-like chariot to hitch to Asifad for the long trek across the scoured waste where the black wind once raged.

Where they had charged through the storm in four days, it took six to trudge back. Gan tried to hide how sleeping in the open worsened his condition. On the second night, Link demanded Gan explain what a campaign tent was and where to get one. Sorting out how to raise it alone was an entirely unpleasant challenge, even with the mask to give him strength, and the lesser timebubble to save Gan the ponderous wait.

He did not get any better at the task in the eight days it took to reach the nearest estate. It was a small compound, with few luxuries, entirely settled by veteran lancers and star-path historians and explorers. The avadha scrambled to welcome their king, and none dared question his refusal of ceremony. Dozens of curious eyes peered at the little Hylian beside him, at the exhausted and underweight stallion pulling their makeshift chariot, at their King who rode forth into the black wind in full battle regalia and returned under clear skies, swathed in a vast mantle woven with the sacred pattern of the Gods’ Teeth. No one dared speak of it in their hearing. 

Gan demanded food brought to the state room, and the baths cleared at midnight for his exclusive use. The leader of the house bowed and promised her faithfulness. Then she asked how he desired the lanterns.

Gan stared at her in silence long enough even the strongest warriors began to fidget. “One red. Firsts shall report to the Champion in one mark, all sections present arms in two. Regard his word as you would the First Roc.”

Link bit back a cry of shock. He didn’t know how to understand the order, but he was pretty sure Gan would be angry if he asked questions in public. 

The leader of the house seemed to share his sentiment, and cast him a glance full of confusion and a little fear. “All shall be as you wish it, oh Great Ganondorf.”

“Pray that it is,” he growled. “She who disturbs my Work without  _ dire _ need shall  _ feed it. _ ”

The leader of the house bowed even lower. “Vo’hei rajena.”

“Hn,” said Gan. He pivoted without another word and stalked away toward the west courtyard.

Gan did not elaborate when they reached the tiny suite of rooms on the fourth terrace. He didn’t even close the outer doors of heavy ironwood and blackened steel. He lit golden oil lamps in the first room by magic, where the only furnishings were a towering weapon rack, a deep padded bench shoved against one wall, a fragrant folding lattice screen, and various boxes on the shelves built into the wall flanking the doors and lattice-screened window. The second, terribly shallow room held a simple armor stand on one side, and a low desk on the other, designed for sitting on the floor. The third held only a vast ironwood platform layered with rugs and mats and cushions, the entire frame ornamented with brass straps, rivets, and rings. Yards and yards of gauzy white linen hung from the ceiling at each corner. 

The fourth was not a room so much as a lattice-screened terrace. From every ironwood beam hung brightly colored pinweels and chimes made of rolled tin and pottery shards and voltfruit cactus bones. To the west, against the outer wall of the compound, a screened cubicle likely hid a necessary. Otherwise the sole furnishings were a series of low-for-a-gerudo cots made of ironwood and woven rags, the largest sitting in the center of the space under a canopy of white gauze weighted down with gods’ teeth beadwork near the ground. 

Gan ended his brief inspection of the suite with folding himself onto that largest cot in square. He kept the mantle pulled high, over his head. Link waited beside him for a quarter of an hour, but Gan offered nothing. Not a word, not a touch, not a look. 

Link paced around the veils a few times, but still, nothing. He paused in front of Ganondorf, but Gan’s golden eyes stared right through him. If he hadn’t watched Gan work magic many times already, he might suspect a Working trance - and he likely intended the avadha of this estate to think that. Like the storm he was, Gan prefered to weave most of his magic in motion. Spirit magics he tended to work in full lotus, but even then, his hands moved. With Healing magic, he sang.

“What do you wish of me, jatheli rajena?”

“One wonders if you mangle the word apurpose,” rumbled Gan in the lazy drawl he so often affected in Hylian.

“Geld’o is hard. Say it for me again and I will try better.”

Gan winced and looked  _ away _ . “Listen to whatever news, inspect the weapons they bring to you, watch a few rounds of drills. Have them dance the eight major patterns. Choose the best four and spar with them, best of three bouts each.”

“And then?”

Gan let the silence stretch far too long, and his voice barely even trembled the air. “Return to my side, eshla’v areldi.”

Link didn’t know the word. He wanted to. His heart whispered that whatever song he spoke of meant love. He wanted it to mean love. Gan almost always used Hylian with him, but Geld’o fell from his tongue when his mind was busy, or he was struggling to maintain his stoic aspect. 

Link swallowed his doubts. He stepped close enough to capture his hand as he took a knee. Gan did not pull away - he didn’t really resist - he just let his arm be limp and heavy, no help whatever. Link pressed a tender kiss to his knuckles anyway. “Always, my beloved desert king.”

Gan shivered. He hitched his mantle still higher with his free hand. Yet he pressed Link’s hand with his own, and when he pulled his hand back, he stroked Link’s hair a few times. He rumbled his correction softly. “Listen carefully. Ja _ che _ li’v.”

“Jacheli’v,” repeated Link.

“Hn,” said Gan, stroking his hair one more time, then withdrawing. “Better.”

Link grinned up at him - he couldn’t help it. He felt warm and electric all over. He craved a kiss, and he craved more touch. The  _ way _ he said it - a rebuke, and yet - it felt like a mask somehow, and though he had no real reason to think he meant anything deeper than a simple correction, he  _ wanted _ to believe it was a secret confession, only for him.

“Hn,” said Gan, turning his gaze toward the lattice screen dividing this strange terrace from the courtyard. “You will be expected in the sword court. You may wish to stretch first.”

Which from him, meant _you’re late, and if you don’t warm up_ ** _now_** _, you are going to be in a world of pain afterwards._ Zelda said he was amazingly - and frequently _rudely_ \- forthright, but to Link he seemed always and forever a cipher, constitutionally incapable of direct speech for more than a minute or two at a time, and certainly no more than an hour in a day.

Link decided to treat his suggestion as an order, and try not to worry about it again until after the wargames. And maybe dinner.  _ Goddess grant he’s in a better mood later. _

Gan was right.

He was also in the same spot as Link left him three hours ago. He’d changed the drape of his mantle, baring his head, but otherwise layering himself in doubled wool against the desert night. He lifted his chin a few degrees up and to his left, his golden eye catching the light of a dozen soft lanterns despite the gauze veils guarding him.

Link adjusted his path to approach from the left. It felt awkward somehow - surely it was more courteous to approach where Gan could see him, but what he  _ wanted _ was to be on the side Gan was more vulnerable. The Great King was stronger than everyone in so many ways, and the idea of the bandit king needing a warrior to guard him was quite possibly the last thing in the world he would have imagined at the beginning of all things.

“It is strange that the ancients should have chosen a  _ wolf _ as your symbol, when you cannot take a quiet step to save your life.”

“I’m too tired to be quiet,” grumbled Link. Always censure. Always judgement. Always cold and remote. “Anyways I’d rather  _ not _ startle you. It is an hour to nadir, and the avadha say the baths will be clean very soon. Have you eaten? The tray in the entry room looks full.”

Gan grunted and looked away. Which could either mean  _ no _ , or  _ yes but I don’t want to say it, for Reasons _ .

“Where should I start, with what the warriors said and how they fight?”

“Any recent raids?”

“Not since before we entered the black wind.”

“Feral blin?”

“Only one, young, with a broken tusk. Made a little trouble at a digsite, but once they had water and a rest beside the oasis, they left again.” For a moment Gan said nothing else, and Link threaded his way through the veils to his side again. He fidgeted, and he tried to gauge Gan’s mood from his posture, his profile.

“How bad is it?” Gan rumbled finally, low and - almost hesitant.

Link frowned. “You’re not talking about the skill of the avadha.”

“No,” Gan answered with the tiniest shake of his head.

Link frowned harder. “I don’t understand what you want.”

Gan sighed. He turned to meet Link’s gaze. “ _ How bad is it _ , little hero?”

Link frowned in confusion, unable to imagine what he wanted, what he could mean by  _ bad _ . So his right eye was clouded from an unlucky strike of the rainbow sword. That indisputable evidence of his failures would always hurt to see, but otherwise Gan radiated a fierce beauty and dazzling strength, and no collection of thin white scars would ever change that.

Even if he had the right words to make him understand, Gan would only snarl about sentiment if he tried, so that  _ couldn’t _ be what he meant. He tried to puzzle through what Gan’s question was about, but with every second slipping past them, he worried that the silence was saying something bad. So Link stepped closer. Gestured with both hands open, asking for touch.

Gan sighed, and bowed his head. His back curved and his broad shoulders rolled forward. Defeated and broken by  _ silence _ .

Link’s heart twisted in his chest and he couldn't bear to follow the rules a moment longer. He captured Gan in a fierce embrace, digging his hand into the other man’s fiery red hair, winding the other fist in his mantle. “Please Gan - I’m just a warrior. I’m not smart enough for your riddles. I don’t know what’s making you sad, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

Gan leaned into the touch, just a little, and placed a hand on his hip. “A  _ passionate _ little warrior. It’s fine. I just - will have to raise more magic.”

“What for?”

Link _felt_ Gan wince. “Kings are one thing. Strong. Learned. Clever. Swift. _Great_ _Kings_ are another, their spirits and bodies inviolable. For a warrior, a scar is often a lesson, a gift from the Lady of Sands who willed she survive her mistake and learn from it, a talisman by which she will remember the correct Pattern going forward. For a King to bear a scar is an _omen_ , whether he chose to bear it or not.”

“Oh - you think the avadha will worry about bad things coming if they see you have a few little scars now?”

Gan snorted bitterly. “ _ A few _ , he says.”

“ _ I _ think you look dignified,” ventured Link, pressing a chaste kiss upon his brow, between the points of the serpent crown. It startled him to realize how deeply Gan’s appearance bothered him. He’d always thought the flamboyant Demon Thief to be vain, but to be so reflexively determined to hide his body from sight it couldn’t be about  _ pride _ in his beauty at all. “I  _ am _ sorry I caught you even a little, but you are still the most handsome of kings. Can’t you tell them we have  _ already _ defeated bad things?”

“It is - a delicate thing to weave. The People have suffered in the wars and in the centuries of the Great Rova. They need a strong king,” rumbled Gan, a strange hesitance in his deep voice.

Link hugged him tighter. “They have the strongest. I should know. I am the only fighter that has  _ ever _ bested you.”

Gan snorted, but the way he moved his hand belied the bitter sound. “Incorrect.”

Link leaned back to meet his eye, curious.

“My sister, the Exalted Sun Nabooru Chalut avadha Saiev is undefeatable in single combat with any edged weapon you care to name.”

It was Link’s turn to snort in amusement. “Incorrect.  _ I _ have defeated her.”

“Hn. Of course you have,” rumbled Gan, gesturing for a kiss.

Link clicked his tongue in censure instead. “Have you eaten?”

Gan paused, brows drawing together.

“Have you slept?” Link prodded him.

Gan frowned.

Link hummed as if in thought, softening the rebuke with caressing his beautiful hair. He wondered how long it would take to grow out enough for braids. “No kisses until you take proper care of yourself, jacheli.”

Gan grunted in displeasure, shifting his hands. He grumbled something indistinct.

Link stroked his cheek, trying to untangle the puzzle of explaining that what he  _ wanted _ was the opposite, but he knew nothing else he could leverage against Gan’s stubbornness. He did not have long to consider it, for in one sudden whirl he found himself on his back on the soft cot, pinned under strong hands and shadows redolent of spice. 

“ _ Kiss me _ ,” rumbled Gan. A petition. A demand. A calculated pretense of seduction. A thinly veiled plea for comfort. 

_ How can I resist that look-? How can I deny him the tangible proof he needs to believe in how deeply I care for him?  _ Link reached up into the shadows to cradle his beloved’s face and draw him down for a little sip of passion. 

Gan was not satisfied with one sip. Or three. Or five. 

Link’s grasp on his own discipline began to slip as every kiss, every touch nibbled away at his resolve to withhold more intense entanglement until he could be  _ sure _ Gan was healed. He craved the delirious bliss Gan knew so well how to pour over him, but he was afraid. The battle against the Dark had drained him so deeply. He’d lost far too much blood from every little slip of the powers of the helix sword, every light arrow meant for Ganon. And yet he cast all that aside to untangle him from his belt and haul his tunic out of the way and claw at the buckles of his tight adamant scalemail. 

Laying his vast hand against bare skin seemed to calm him a little. Gan allowed him a little more breath, settling back on his heels, letting only a small fraction of his weight rest on Link’s captive leg. He kept the mantle tented over both of them, and he kept himself in front of the lanternlight, hiding himself in shadows.

“Oh, oh you are  _ so _ wicked, you temptor, you tease,” gasped Link, struggling with his rising lust. 

Gan laughed at him, and drifted his hands lower, stroking his rebellious flesh through his sweaty trews. And yet - he remained hunched over in shadows, hidden between the angle of the light and the drape of his mantle, a mountain of performative menace hellbent on getting into Link’s pants when he ought to be resting, eating, healing.

“Oh please, no more - I will go crazy with wanting you,” begged Link, though his hips arched into the touch against his will. “Dinner. Bath. Then maybe,  _ maybe _ . It is only a week - it is far too early to push yourself. I don’t want to hurt you.”

Gan snorted. “Are you a  _ wolf _ or a  _ broody cucco _ ?”

“Whichever sees my king healed sooner, better,” countered Link with a growl, though Gan’s taunting caress spoiled the effect somewhat.

Gan chuckled at him and bowed to nibble at the side of his neck - and to do that  _ thing _ with his lips and tongue that would surely mark his skin for days, a red and purple speckled bruise that anyone might see peeking from his collar. There would be no mistaking how he acquired it. But - it seemed a sign Gan’s mood was beginning to improve despite his perceived failure to erase the scars on his face. Maybe Gan would tease him again with tracing a fingertip over the mark while it persisted, maybe he would let that secret smile tug at his wide lips again, maybe he would add more while they bathed in private.

“Wicked lech,” groaned Link, as Gan answered his secret wish, tugging his collar wide to drop another mark near his collarbone.

“You have precisely zero grounds to judge,” rumbled Gan. But there was a hint of amusement in his rebuke.

“Bath first,” Link groaned. “Please jacheli,  _ please _ , food and bath, let me take care of you before I lose my mind and fuck you stupid.”

“Such promises,” taunted Gan, marking him a third time.

But it worked.

Sortof.

Link collected a dozen marks in the process of persuading Gan into eating a proper meal, and another two dozen in getting them both clean. By the time they fell into bed an hour before dawn, they were both so exhausted they fell asleep in a tangle of naked flesh before they could even properly begin anything at all.


	20. Gentleness - 5 of ?

The avadha of the estate kept few horses, none of the half as grand as Asifad, let alone Zharu, but they insisted their King accept the best dappled mare from their humble stables when Gan announced upon rising that he would leave after the hour of madness. None of them asked where he was going or why, though their bright eyes burned with unspoken questions. 

Ganondorf ignored them, and he wrapped his mantle as before, hiding his broken skin from his people. He spoke quietly with the leader of the house, something about traces of some lost moon artifact. He demanded a Davayu mantle for his Champion, and when the woman said they had none, he demanded they produce all the sacred and royal cloth in their storerooms. None of it pleased him. He chose a heavy blanket with the pattern of the gods’ teeth and demanded silver cloak pins to make it serve until he reached a properly appointed storehouse.

The woman cowered in shame, stammering apologies for their mistaken assumption that they would never have the honor of  _ actually _ hosting their King even for one night, much less that he would bring any of his favored petitioners from the devotees of growth all the way to the farthest reach of the wasteland. She did  _ not _ say ‘ _ we didn’t expect to see you of all people take a Hylian lover’ _ , but her concerted effort to  _ not look  _ at Link while she groveled said it all the same.

Gan stood over her for several long minutes, saying nothing. Outwardly he gave no sign whatever of any reaction to her plea. Link could see the pain in his golden eyes, despite the shadows of his deep cowl. 

Link hated to see him that way. He hated to learn how harshly his rank and duty and reputation bound him to rigid patterns that allowed him no room whatever for comfort or connection. He hated knowing that Gan was spending his magic on smoothing away the marks from his face and hands instead of healing his bones, his tremors, his shortness of breath, the deep gouges down his sides that opened every time he moved too much, the hidden damage to the insides of his body. He didn’t know if his clouded eye  _ could _ be healed, and he was afraid to upset Gan by asking.

The next estate lay two days’ ride away, and Gan refused to camp between. He promised they would rest longer to make up for it, and he tried to hide how close he came to falling from Asifad’s saddle as they rode through the frigid night. He didn’t want to talk at all, and he held his tired stallion to a slow lope.

The compound sprawled more than twice as large, and sported eight towers instead of four. They didn’t reach the place until three hours after sunset, so it was difficult to see any more of it than that. The guards on the wall saw them coming, and raised a great clamour of drums and horns to welcome their king. 

Once again, Gan cut their ceremony short, and demanded the feast brought to him in private. This time, he did not send Link to inspect their warriors, nor did he ask for a red lantern. Instead, he asked for a pair of green lanterns, and ordered Link to attend dinner with the avadha. 

While  _ he _ ate alone.

The leader of this estate wore red, as did many of the other avadha. Here too, at least a third of the women wore purple veils, and though the rest wore shades of white and blue, none wore green. None of the avadha offered their names, and he was afraid to ask and offend them. The leader showed him to a black-and-gray silk cushion on the loft above the central room, overlooking the rest of the feast. She sat on a brightly-woven reddish one, with a vast empty cushion of solid black silk between them. The distance precluded any real conversation, even if his knowledge of Geld’o had been good enough to allow it. Halfway through the heavily spiced meal he realized the black cushion was the only empty one in the room, and it  _ must _ belong to Gan. 

_ Among them, Champion isn’t  _ **_just_ ** _ a good warrior. It’s a powerful rank in their army - but it also means something important  _ **_off_ ** _ the field. Why doesn’t he want to explain this title he’s giving everyone? Is it a mask and I should be doing something to draw their attention somewhere? Is it - a real thing he wants me to wear? What does it mean? Am I supposed to be doing things with the warriors? Am I responsible for what other people do now or do I just hear reports and spar with them and report to him? What  _ **_am_ ** _ I, now that the battle is over? _

Link wrestled with the puzzle throughout the lonely meal. He was hungry, so he ate, but nothing tasted like anything but spice, which led him back to thinking about Gan, which made food even less interesting. The leader of this estate frowned whenever he caught her eye, discouraging questions. 

When he could not force himself to eat anything else, he washed his hands and stood, then immediately regretted it. Every avadha in red or purple stood also. A chorus of voices rose to fill the stone building:  _ Vo’hei rajena Geld’o, Vo’hei Ghed vo’ Ganondorf, Vo’hei khesh vo’ saiev. _

“Um. Thanks,” stammered Link, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. He stumbled through the formula he’d heard Ganondorf return to them when they hailed him. “Vo’hei chalut va ikhusa?”

“Vo’hei rajena Geld’o, savai khesh vo’saiev i yadaj chadali’v,” they cried.

_ I don’t know what half of that means. _ Link bowed with his fist over his heart as he’d seen the Gerudo warriors do, hoping he wasn’t offending anyone. He stammered through an attempt at apology in Geld’o, but gave up and switched to Hylian, hoping the leader at least would understand him. “I’m not good at fancy manners. I know how to  _ fight _ , and I have fought beside the King in a great battle. We defeated an enemy of your country and mine, together, but it was very hard and I - don’t know your rituals yet. I would be happy to learn, and I promise I will protect the Golden People from any bad things, but tonight - I need to know his wish, first. I am still Hylian, and I know your mysteries are not for me. Please, if someone will show me the path to the King’s place here-?”

“Vo’hei khesh vo’yadaj chadali l’voesh,” they cried - and every one of them bowed. To  _ him _ .

“Uhm,” said Link, baffled by their submission. 

“He follows now,” said the leader in heavily accented Hylian, gesturing impatiently. She did not smile.

The carved terrace doors looked much like those at the last estate, but here the ornament was highlighted in gold, the relief cuts stained with ocher. Link could not say anything about the rooms beyond, for on the other side they lay shrouded in velvet darkness. Luminous blue-green ornaments floated in the featureless - and probably magical - black. Directly ahead, a pair of candles burned in green glass lanterns.

“Gan-?” Link whispered as the red-clad leader pulled the doors closed behind him with a resounding thud.

Laughter in the darkness.

Link followed the sound, his tread careful over polished wood and layered rugs. He didn’t know what to think of the sinuous designs painted on the nothingness, or the glowing knives and cups and bowls and strangely face-like ancestral mark clustered at what was probably the corners of the room.

“A bit late to become afraid of shadows, little hero.” Gan rumbled at him from somewhere to his left, entirely hidden by the darkness. 

“This is a lot of magic,” whispered Link, turning towards his voice, hand outstretched.

Gan wrapped his hand around Link’s, pulling him into his arms. Before he could say anything else, Gan’s lips covered his own, possessive and demanding. He tasted different - the faintly bitter sting of spirits lay on his tongue, but with an unpleasantly sharp edge that was different from the ritual drink he’d shared a few times on the journey. 

Link caressed his broad chest, confused by the oily, slick texture of his bare skin. It made his own skin shiver and tighten, and it stirred an inconvenient flash of visceral memory from the grotto before the battle. He tried to pull back enough to speak - Gan followed, lifting and pressing him up against some unknown furnishing. His strong hands tore at lacings and buckles and clawed at him in the dark, and the fire of his passionate intent kindled torment under his skin. 

“What is this?” Link gasped.

Gan chuckled, and nipped at his ear. “You broke your promise, little hero. Where is that fuck you threatened? Hm? Raise up that pretty little cock for me.”

“Ohhhno not yet - I don’t think I closed the door and - the avadha here already don’t like me,” whined Link, desperately striving to resist the pleasure of Gan’s palm grinding over his center. “You still aren’t well - you  _ shouldn’t _ .”

“To hell with that,” growled Gan, pinning Link against the furniture with his hips to free both hands for peeling him out of his armor. “You truly want to help me, little hero? You want to feed magic and strength to your king? Are you  _ sure _ ? I will show you  _ such _ dancing on this longest night, getchu drunk on milk and honey. If you’re up for it. If you’re game. If you’re sure.”

“I do, I am here, what do you need-?  _ Oh _ but don’t tease me like that, I can’t bear to hurt you again,” Link moaned. “It’s getting really cold - longest night? Solstice already?”

“The night will burn soon enough, Hero. And who said I was teasing? I want you to  _ scream _ for me tonight,” rumbled Ganondorf. He caressed Link’s neck with his tongue, he grasped at his chest, he rolled a thumb around his nipple, he pinned Link with the simple fact of his immense size, he clutched at the meat of his ass like he would spread his body open right there in the middle of the enchanted dark.

“ _ Ohnooo _ ,” moaned Link in genuine agony. “I thought you said I was too small?”

“Hnnn,” said Gan, nipping at his neck. “Do you not trust in your beloved king? Dontchu want to feel my power grow for you, oh Hero?”

Link whimpered as Gan conjured his boots off so he could wrangle his trousers down. He was nearly naked already - his skin said Gan had some kind of smooth, slippery cloth draping him about the waist and hips and nothing else. His mind screamed that Gan was in no condition whatever for such wrestling. “I  _ do _ want but - Gan please, why the shadows? Why are you being -  _ oh _ \- so strange? Have you been drinking? Are you ok?”

“Foolish little hero. Shadows are not all the same. Darkness  _ can _ offer a certain -  _ hn _ \- charm. Would you like to learn? Experience the seductive delights of the unseen?” Gan purred with a wicked chuckle, lifting him up and fitting his legs around his sharp hips. He pulled Link away from the furniture so his only anchor in the enchanted shadows and scattered luminous things was Gan himself.

“Isn’t it harder, making love in the dark? What if I touch a wound by accident? What if-”

“You worry too much,” scoffed Gan, carrying him past the dim green lanterns that didn’t illuminate much of anything at all. “Dance the blessings of Bountiful Farore with me, little hero, and none of that will matter.”

The air whispered like shifting cloth, but Link couldn’t tell if he imagined it. He wondered if Gerudo state rooms were all veiled. He couldn’t remember many details from the hard push west. The fierce spirit in the mask didn’t care about material anything, and it was hard to force his mind through the cold and violent fury to remain awake to small things when he wore it. These rooms seemed larger than the last estate, or at least crossing them felt like it took longer with no concept of distance between the strange glowing things. He yelped in spite of himself when Gan pitched forward - he was falling backward - untethered - the abyss would swallow them both - but then his back hit the soft heap of cushions, and Gan was above him, laughing at him, and his sharp, hot, heavy breath was blooming against his bare skin.

“You like avadha, little hero? You haven’t had one in this life. You miss it? Do you miss the slippery wet welcome of a lush oasis consuming you? Do you remember what it’s like to plow a lush garden until she bucks and floods around your thorn? Do you want a little treat-?”

“I don’t understand,” stammered Link when he could make his tongue work. It was beastly hard, with Gan’s mouth on his chest and hands on his thighs and ass.

“You don’t  _ have _ to,” murmured Gan against his skin, his lips and tongue drifting ever lower in the dark. “You are mine. They can’t demand you. But - oh -  _ ikhusa i streka _ , how I want to hear you sing in pleasure. Do you want a woman tonight, little hero? Do you want to offer yourself beside me? Will you dance with us? Feast with us?”

Link hissed and braced himself against the rising madness. “Who? Do you know the avadha here? Is that why the leader doesn’t like me?”

“Does it matter?” Gan kissed his hip, right at the edge of the strange scar he awakened with. “Tell me this, my pretty Champion. Have you ever known the delight of - hn -  _ ladyflowers _ grinding honey into your pretty face  _ while _ another oasis wraps tight around your thorn?”

Link shook his head no, because he couldn’t make his tongue answer him with Gan sucking at the side of his throbbing cock through the thin linen of his underbreeches.  _ A question like that -  _ **_he’s_ ** _ had that kind of sex before. He must like it - and he said dance with  _ **_us_ ** _. He hasn’t wanted that kind of touch at all except that night on the terrace and right after the battle. Now he tastes weird. And he’s so  _ **_intense_ ** _.  _

_ But he feels so good - and between his words, he wants me to do this.  _ **_He wants me._ ** _ Does it matter if a stranger is there too? The way he talks about women - maybe  _ **_he_ ** _ misses the feeling of their bodies too.  _

_ Maybe he is bored of only hands and kisses.  _

_ Maybe he is unhappy that he can’t be inside me all the way. _

_ Maybe... he likes women better _ .

“Sa’ikhusa  _ tell me  _ you will sing for me,” rumbled Ganondorf over and over around a mouthful of flesh and sodden cloth, kissing and nibbling his way from hip to hip, from rib to thigh and back again. “You don’t have to do it, you don’t even have to stay, you don’t have to, you don’t.”

“Do you want me to?” Link gasped, reaching to thread a hand into Gan’s hair - also slick with oil, and now bearing tiny little chains and beads tangled throughout. 

“Sa’Deasa ikhusa,” groaned Gan, clutching at his waist and pressing his brow into the little valley at the base of his ribcage. The gem-settings of the serpent crown dug into his flesh, but Gan didn’t seem to notice, or maybe he didn’t care. “ _ Yes _ hero, I want to hear them fuck you into howling madness, and  _ yes _ I want to suck their honey from your pretty cock and  _ yes _ I want - merciful Din I  _ want _ \- I’m not gonna - I won’t. Oh hero  _ why _ did you follow me? Don’t you know you are damned? Don’t you fear how the Demon Thief  _ fucks _ ?”

“No,” said Link softly, petting his hair. “I’m not afraid of you or anything. If you want to have sex in the dark, just be careful. Ok? Even if it  _ is _ solstice already, it’s only a fortnight since the battle. I don’t want to hurt you - and in the dark the avadha you want to dance with won’t  _ know _ to be careful.”

“It’s not sex, Link, it’s not the sex. I mean, it  _ is _ the sex, but it’s  _ not _ the sex, oh sa’ikhusa  _ I want to fuck you _ ,” moaned Gan against his skin. “You shouldn’t trust me. I will do _ such things _ to you. Sa’Deasa how you will sing. Esha’vo yadaj, esha’vo ja- ja-jadiraith. Yeah. Jiradath. Yeah. You should go if you’re gonna, or they will fuck you stupid. Pretty little Hylian, rare as gold rupee out here, they will take you if I mark you, they will.”

_ Maybe he  _ **_is_ ** _ drunk. He always speaks so crisp and perfect, even the drawl is clear and resonant. And he never rambles.  _ “Are you ok?”

“Mmfine, I’m fine. Maybe a little tired. Long day. Week. Whatever,” grumbled Gan with a heavy shrug. He pulled away, leaving Link alone in the soft dark. 

A shard of luminous blue-green light appeared above and to his right. As he watched, a smaller roundish shard rose from it, drawing a lazy whorl in the air. It dimmed for a moment, then divided into a thin round smear, and a sardonic arc floating above him. He realized the glow came from some kind of ink or paint, and Gan had just painted his soft lips with it. 

“We gonna dance the long night, yadaj’v. You dance with us, yeah?”

“Yeah,” breathed Link, not entirely sure he was saying the right thing.

But Gan’s dark voice smiled as he dipped his fingers in the glowing paint again, drawing up more to anoint the curve of his brows, the arch of his cheeks. Watching a specter of the Gerudo ancestral crest come alive in the dark was beyond eerie. “Sweet Farore will bless us, Merciful Din will strengthen us, Bright Nayru will restore us. You want me to mark you? Tie you nice’n safe, pretty you up for them. You want to taste the night with us, Hero? You want to sing for me, ja-jiradath yadaj?”

“What is that word-? The avadha said it too,” Link stammered, watching four glowing fingers smear more blue-green down Gan’s throat. 

“You,” purred Gan, drawing his hand in a strange pattern over his chest, leaving faint blue-green in his wake. “It’s you, it’s  _ you _ , my Champion, my pretty little hero. I  _ will _ find the relic to adorn you, I  _ will _ have you at my side. Vo’yadaj chadali asaleth’v, dyathe’v, vo’jiradath - k’cyrtileth a dorru!”

“Uh. Gan, jacheli - you haven’t taught me those words,” stammered Link, propping himself up on his elbows.

“Hn,” said Gan, and the glowing symbol-face and luminous shards of dyepot and stained skin moved closer. “Will you dance? Will you go? Say the word, and you are free. Say the word, and I will prepare you for  _ glory _ . One little word.”

He felt Gan’s knees settle to either side of his own, his oil-slick skin burning hot. He watched Gan dip his fingers in the little endarkened vessel of luminous dye. He watched Gan extend the line down his own center, down and down, slowly drawing apart into a strange tangled whorl around his navel, and again well below his waist. Where the silk garment didn’t seem to drape him anymore. It was hard to tell with everything being shadowed, but as Gan knelt over him to draw designs on his own skin, little movements obscured this or that arc, and the patterns extended too fluidly from torso to hip to thigh.

_ Sex in the dark. Painted with light. Not enough to see  _ **_him_ ** _ , but with the glowing stuff he becomes more like a living painting than a man.  _ “What will happen when you paint me too?”

Gan laughed. “The fourth lantern, Hero. Feast. Festival. Farore’s Blessings. Any avadha who desires the mystery may seek it. Will you offer an elegant little mystery for them?”

“You mean - the women will just - come into the shadows and - you will let them touch you? Because of the lanterns and the paint? And if I wear light-patterns like you, they will touch me also?”

“They might,” conceded Gan, drawing a lazy spiral above one hip. “Do you want to find out? Do you want to see how many oasis you can taste in this long night? Do you want to root yourself in this land? Do you want to draw power up into the flowers for me? I will tie you safe, they can’t take your rose, they can’t make you fall.”

“Where will you be?” Link murmured, watching him draw the tail of the spiral down to coil the other way near the shadows under his centerline.

“Here, I will be here, we will dance. Do you want a woman tonight, little hero? Do you want to offer yourself beside me?”

Link watched him mirror the pattern on the other side, licking his lips. The longer he watched the patterns the more enticing they seemed to become. “What if I don’t?”

Gan drew a sharp breath, and the glowing spiral paused. “Then you go. Ask them  _ dorviru rahalin saiev _ , and they will give you bed and warm things. No one will trouble you - rest until I summon you, probably not tomorrow, but after.”

“While you dance alone?”

Gan laughed, sardonic and graceful again. “Not sure  _ alone _ is the right word.”

Link worried at his lip, watching the luminous patterns expand. “What is it  _ like _ though? How does this help your magic? Isn’t this going to make you  _ more _ tired?”

“Worth it,” said Gan, and the patterns shrugged. “Hard to explain. I can show you - but once the lantern burns, Hero, it  _ burns _ . Do you understand?”

_ You mean there’s no stopping once it begins. You dance for them until they are done. But you speak like - it is good. You like it. _ “Maybe - I will like it too. I think I - want to try.”

Gan chuckled, and bowed over him, placing the little glowing jar beside them. He dipped his fingers in the light and painted his lips again, bowing so close Link could smell the herb-laced paint and just barely make out a dozen little reflections in his eyes. Gan offered a lopsided grin and the barest suggestion of a kiss. “Esha’vo yadaj’v. Sing for me, and I will drink power from your spirit. Sing for me, and I will drink pleasure from your skin. Sing for me, and we will dance the Light into being, yeah?”

“Yeah,” whispered Link, shivering even though his skin burned.


	21. Gentleness - 6 of ?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SMUT FOR THE SMUT GODS
> 
> ...so much smut...
> 
> ......hey it was a bad week ok......

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Involves some light bondage and persuasion elements, but please recall the explicit consent was given in section 5 of this virtue.

Silk and shadows and slick oil. Sticky glowing paint and the taste of fragrant smoke. Luminous words in the sinuous script of Geld’o poets. 

Ice on his lips where the kiss is over and his king dances in the shadows. Ice on his chest where glowing paint marks him and his king sings in the darkness. Ice in his bones where he feels too well the distant drums and his king offers his body to the night.

Fire under his skin where he yearns for the luminous hands of his king. Fire under his skin where silk cloth binds him to the bed of his king. Fire under his skin where his body awaits what might become at the will of his king.

He is not surprised when Gan purrs something indistinct to someone that is not him. He knows. He is ready. He is stretching his ears with wondering anyway. He can just barely see the glowing patterns move in the other room, if he lifts his head. Gan gave him pillows, but he is still supine, and he is still tethered in a way which Gan says will make him an easy ride, and peering into the darkness beyond the vast sleeping platform is hard. 

Light approaches, but not for him. Gan’s back is turned away, he is speaking low to someone. He is turning again, but now his light is obscured by another body in the darkness. A woman whimpers.

Gan chuckles darkly. His strong arms wrap around the shadows, every muscle picked out with lines and spirals of luminous blue-green. Link can only make out one half of the ancestral crest he wears on his face. He wonders if Gan buries his nose in the stranger’s hair the way he holds Link sometimes. He feels more than a little prick of jealousy as he watches painted bone hands move over the soft darkness. 

Link cannot see the woman, but he knows how tall other Gerudo are compared to him, to his King. He knows the shape of the motion, that the darkness between them is not a flat slope. He knows he is watching Gan caress her breasts. He wonders if she is naked, or if the faint smear of paint - too little to describe her form - is rubbing off on her bandeau.

Gan says something about  _ yadaj _ , and there is a wickedness in his tone. His other hand is drifting low, is sweeping oh-so-slowly to the side where her body curves toward generous hips. A faint shift of pressure and slope suggests weight on the cushioned platform where his king is touching someone that is not him. 

He bites his lip. 

Gan purrs something in a tone of amusement and there is the word again,  _ yadaj _ . Words about beauty, and words about seeing, and words about hunger.

_ They are watching me watch them-! In the dark, do the patterns he painted on me look like a captive Stalfos, with the shapes of bones on my skin and glowing silk binding my wrists and thighs? How is that enticing? Do the swirls change it so much? Is he persuading her to have sex with me _ ? 

The woman whimpers again, and she says something blurry that seems to hold the word  _ rajena _ . It means  _ hope _ , but also  _ king _ . 

It is strange to hear how the golden people think so differently of the ruthless warlord who was once his enemy. He always thought they called him the Great Ganondorf because he made them do it, to feed his pride. He saw three estates on the mad push west, pretending to be his hidden companion. He heard their praise, understanding little of it. He accepted their tribute of food and cloth and shelter. He even had sex with some of them, rough and perfunctory and muted by the power of the divine mask. None of it had really mattered at the time except as a way to provision them for the journey.

Now he saw a second estate on the return from battle. Now he saw how tender were the hands of the ruthless bandit king when he touched a loyal avadha. Now he was ashamed of how roughly  _ he _ had touched others while he wore the illusion, even if it  _ was _ intended to deceive the evil witches.

Some of them were afraid of him, but only a little, and only in the way most people are afraid of the important and powerful. Even when he threatened to make them fuel his magic if they interrupted him. They bowed in submission, and they feared displeasing him, but not in terror for their lives. Their fear of crossing the Great Ganondorf was like Talon’s fear of disappointing his daughter. It was like Hylian soldiers’ fear of failing their Princess. It was like - his own fear of losing Gan’s hard-won trust.

The woman moaned in pleasure. 

Gan’s bright fingers vanished into shadows, and he grunted in approval. He purred something - and a shard of blue-green flickered around the edge of her shadowed hips as Gan moved his own. A faint whisper of  _ wet _ tickled his ears. Tickled his insides. Tickled a distant memory of the first time he touched a Great Fairy’s soft places on purpose, exploring the slick and strangely compelling rosepetal flesh with his fingers.

Gan tucked his face against the shadows, his cheek and ear and shoulder just barely visible. He murmured something. His left hand cradled her breast, seemed to toy with her nipple between his fingers. More of his right hand vanished into darkness.

She moaned again, and this time her words made his insides tremble harder, for the deep caress of her king drew forth an inarguable  _ yes _ .

Link watched. He didn’t even know for sure what he was watching. He didn’t have the first idea who the stranger might be. Her voice was unfamiliar, so she probably wasn’t the leader. Gan said it didn’t matter, but he wasn’t so sure. 

Link felt his flesh begun to stir and somewhat belatedly realized he had no way to address it. His hands were bound above his head. Gan had given him some room to wriggle and stretch, to bend his arms and wrists, and he wasn’t  _ uncomfortable _ . Not yet. 

He just - had never in any life found himself both restrained in a way he couldn’t reach himself  _ and _ becoming aroused at the same time.

It was new.

It was strange.

His cock was starting to throb. 

“Oh no,” murmured Link.

Gan laughed, low and dark and unfairly sexy. Maybe he knew how it would all happen from the beginning. Maybe he could see Link’s erection beginning to obscure the intricate flower around his base. Maybe he liked knowing Link was helpless to attend the discomforts of his own body.

The woman drew a sharp, hissing breath. The shape of the luminous hand between her thighs changed. Moved forward, cupped, and again the sound of wet flesh moving together. She hummed in pleasure.

Gan laughed, rumbling something about rivers. His voice caught in the middle of a word. He exhaled sharp and swift. He groaned softly. 

Link whimpered in helpless answer, for that subtle noise sent a tremor through his core. Knowing Gan felt pleasure somehow fed his rising desire, even though jealousy stung his throat. He wasn’t sure if he envied the stranger, or if he envied Gan, or both. 

He couldn’t fathom what they were doing, but he wanted it. He wanted to know in his skin what made them moan as one. He wanted to know the feeling Gan was giving her. He wanted to know how it felt to be doing whatever he was doing to her.

Laughter.

Women, teasing, sing-song. 

Darkness consuming and surrendering shards of luminous blue-green as the strangers moved through the shadows. Hands made of void wrapped around the strong arms of the painted King. 

Gan chuckled at them and raised his face, but his eyes were closed, his painted eyelids glowing at the hearts of the painted, bound double crescents. He turned to one side, and the finger-streaks in the painted wedges over mouth and brow stood out in sharp relief. Then vanished. Wet shadows blurred the pattern.

_ Rajena vo’davrosh _ , they teased him, speaking of hunger and cold and thirst as their hands laid claim to the living artistry of his body. They didn’t seem to mind - or maybe, notice - that he was already pleasuring someone. They  _ did _ giggle and speak of  _ yadaj _ and  _ saiev _ and  _ chadali _ . Champion and warrior and - something that no one else seemed to be.

The weight on the platform shifted. Link heard only the distant drums and the wet, the rumble-purr and the panting, and the faintest  _ shuff _ of cloth moving. Maybe crawling towards greater comfort in a heap of endarkened cushions like his own. Maybe stripping naked. Maybe… looking at him.

He shivered and bit back a yelp of shock when an unseen hand touched his knee.

She laughed. She teased him in her own language, but many times she said  _ yadajititu _ , and he understood that well enough.

After all, Gan called him  _ little hero _ more often than not. 

It hurt sometimes, like a splinter, that his size defined him for everyone. He didn’t like being small. He didn’t like being thought young and weak by literally everyone. But the way the golden people said it - they  _ were _ teasing, but not in a mean way. All Hylians would be small to them. They didn’t seem to doubt his strength - Gan had, once, but even in that time, he said he admired the courage it took for someone so small and vulnerable to stand up to him and say  _ no _ .

Link drew a sharp breath as the hidden stranger caressed his leg, chattering at him in words he couldn’t untangle. Only part of his mind was thinking about her. The rest was circling around how very rarely Gan praised anything. Even now, even as he hummed in pleasure and purred strange poetry at the woman in his arms, he didn’t say she was  _ good _ . He didn’t say he  _ liked _ her. At least not yet. Link knew those words, and his ears ached from straining to hear if he would say them. He heard words that seemed to imply both - and his  _ tone _ certainly stirred more jealousy. Even as a stranger teased at his hip, dancing her fingertips to the edge of the flower painted around his root and back to the iliac crest  _ Gan _ taught him to notice.

_ You are beautiful. My pretty little Champion. _

_ You call me pretty a lot. _

_ It is true. _

_ I will kiss you. If you like. _

_ I do like. You’re cute when you blush, my little hero.  _

_ The best parts were when you made the good noises. Or that I thought were good noises. _

_ They were. You are brave and good and kind, and you deserve better. _

_ I don’t remember you carrying weapons as an old king. _

_ Then I have found you too late. I need you. I need your strength. _

_ It is good. _

_ It is.  _

The hands of the woman in the darkness made every memory sharper. The hum and grunt of his king in pleasure made every remembered word echo inside his head. The confusing shards of light moving in the darkness beside his feet plucked strings of need under his skin.

The woman laughed at him, and teased a fingertip along his overheated cock.

“ _ Oh _ that’s wicked,” he groaned.

She laughed at him. She snapped her teeth in the darkness. She shaped Hylian words with an accent so heavy it took many breaths to understand:  _ she now begins, champion, he will give his speaking. _

“Okay, okay, but please - just a  _ little _ more,” he begged, arching his hips in the darkness as she took her hand away.

She laughed. She said  _ no _ . She said  _ now he gives _ . She slid a hand over his chest. Something soft teased his lips, barely touching, but somehow his lips sparked, and he felt heat on his face. He wasn’t sure if it was her, or his own blushing. 

He raised his head from the cushions, and he found soft skin, flowerpetal skin, warm and pliant, and his whole core clenched tight. He unfurled his tongue and pulled her nipple into his mouth before his mind caught up to what was happening. He reminded himself to be gentle with tender flesh, forcing himself to open his jaw, telling himself firmly not to bite. 

She was a woman, not a fairy.

She was laughing at him.

Gan was laughing.

Another woman - several women laughed.

Link groaned around a mouthful of soft breast. He sucked at her, savoring the tickle that started somewhere under his tongue and coursed through his jaw and throat.

Gan rumbled something about hunger.

A hand in the darkness teased his nipple. Another teased his cock. They couldn’t possibly belong to the same woman who crouched over him - or maybe they  _ could _ , since he was so much smaller than her. She took her breast away. 

He whimpered.

She laughed, and gave him the other.

He squirmed and wriggled in his bindings. He still needed to touch himself, needed to adjust the folds of skin and resettle some of the tension at his root, but he  _ really _ needed to touch her. He needed to know her flesh in his hands. He needed to wrap his hands around her waist. He needed to grasp her breasts. He needed to sink his fingers into her soft thighs. He needed to feel the strong muscles moving under her skin. He needed to caress her hair.

He whined and suckled her more passionately, harboring a slender hope that if he was good, she would loosen his hands. That if he was good enough she would want him to touch her more. He wriggled in a way he hoped would tell her what he wanted.

It didn’t work.

She hummed and laughed. She took her breasts away. She teased his lips with a fingertip, laughing when he nipped at her. She took her hand away. 

In the darkness, Gan laughed, and he growled, and there was a louder  _ wet _ sound, and a  _ smack _ sound, and another woman cried out in shock, then hummed as more wet sounds happened. Hands teased over his body, thigh and chest and cock and arm.

And then the fingers on his lips were wet, fragrant, dripping.

As he sucked the silk from her fingers he heard Gan’s purring rumble in his memory, calling the taste of a woman’s arousal  _ honeywine _ .

Link didn’t think she was like wine or honey at all, but more like licking at the rim of a bucket of fresh cream before churning or sweetening or skimming. Still good. Better than good. He barely remembered the taste from other lives and he wanted to learn it again. He whimpered, and he tried to remember the Geld’o for  _ more _ .

He never knew if he managed it, but she understood anyway. Or maybe she didn’t care whether he wanted more or not. He was marked and bound and he belonged to her King, who belonged to her, belonged to all of the People. 

She knelt astride his shoulders. She sunk a hand in his hair. Curls teased his lips. She pulled him up into her, and there was no more of teasing. She was more gentle than a Great Fairy, but her command was firm nonetheless. She pressed her slick flowers against his face, rocking her hips to use the curve of his lips and chin and nose whether he chose to give his tongue or not.

He whimpered and stuck his tongue out to tell her with his body that he would indeed be happy to lick the cream from her soft places. 

She squeaked and giggled, pulling back a moment, but only a moment, only enough for a breath. She pressed against him again, rubbing herself on the flat of his tongue, guiding him with her hand -  _ hands? _ \- in his hair to lick the little valleys to the side of the soft budling that nestled at the center of her upper folds. Her cream dripped on his chin.

Hands in the dark caressed him, distracting him from his efforts to learn the shape of her flower. One of them felt like a woman for sure, her long nails cold and sharp and ticklish. Another hand seemed warmer and stronger, but it couldn’t be Gan. Maybe a warrior. One of the elite fighters who carried claymore or labrys.  _ Gan _ was growling and grunting and rumbling something at the woman in his own hands, somewhere in the dark.

The wet sounds stirred visceral impressions from shards of other lives, memories of fucking into the deep places of a woman. His cock throbbed so hard it hurt. Link whimpered, and struggled to draw breath.

Someone laughed.

The woman on his face settled lower, grinding harder against him for several long beats as she hummed in pleasure. She pulled back and relaxed her hand in his hair, letting him drop back against the cushions to breathe. Three, five, seven breaths - and on eight she rocked her hips forward and rubbed her sodden cunt on his face again. She was dripping down his chin. Her flavor was shifting. He couldn’t find words for how. It just  _ was _ , and it was good. Her softness changed, plush and enveloping.

He wanted more. 

He couldn’t speak with his face trapped between her thighs. He begged her with his tongue, serving as she guided him, offering every fragment he could remember of how to kiss a woman’s vulva until she howled and trembled and prayed.

He couldn’t hear anything but his own rushing pulse in his ears and the muffled moans of the woman above him. It wasn’t enough yet. His skin burned with the need to feel more of her. To taste more of her elusive sweetness. 

He tried to push aside the pleasure, the tease of unknown hands wandering, claiming, ticklish and demanding. Every thrill and spasm and throb fractured his attention. He fought desperately to narrow his focus to the fiery, pulsing tenderness of the woman riding his face.

Her thighs quivered.

Link softened his tongue. 

She cried out and tugged his hair fiercely, pulling him right back into her throbbing cunt. 

Link wriggled in her grasp, seeking to kiss the delicate mound of the tender budling. Something in his movement made her cry out, hoarse and harsh. 

So he tried again.

And again.

What was  _ air _ when there was the ecstasy of her howling madness resonating through his flesh?

Time grew strange in the dark. Link rode the dizziness, panting for breath, soaked and dripping sweet nectar he couldn’t chase down, his entire soul adrift in the spangled dark.

He tugged at his bindings, hitching himself higher on the pillows. It was no help whatever. He couldn’t bring his hands close enough to wipe his face or claw his hair out of his eyes. He couldn’t clutch at any of the strangers touching him. He couldn’t soothe the ache of desire. 

His struggles made the Gerudo laugh at him. Including Gan. Even though the undulating dance of blue-green at his side said Gan was probably in the middle of fucking someone, or preparing her for the fucking, or both.

The second woman was smaller and more gentle. She settled back on her heels, resting a little of her weight on his chest, leaning back to open her tenderness for him. His neck and jaw soon ached with the effort of reaching her. He begged her to untie him. She giggled and called him a silly Hylian.

He begged her to move closer.

She fretted in broken Hylian about hurting him.

He tried to assure her of his strength in broken Geld’o. 

Gan panted and rumbled a command of some kind. 

She whined in distress - and let a little more of her weight rest on him as she rocked her hips farther forward. The pressure on his collarbone felt strangely satisfying. 

Gan laughed and rumbled something in that delightfully sardonic growl - and the shadows cried out, no doubt for something he was doing in his graceful swaying. Link could barely make out the edges of his patterns past the endarkened thigh of the woman seeking his own tongue. 

Then the woman’s flesh teased his lips and stole all coherent thought. She tasted of voltfruit and salt, yet she was still rich and savory. She kept her nether-hair arranged in some fancy way, like Gan did, bare in some places, trimmed in others, and her soft mound adorned with luxurious curls. He learned quickly that she liked him suckling at her folds, and kissing the soft flesh of her outer sex. In lives where he settled into something like peace with Malon, she’d liked that too - but  _ she _ would have been dreadfully embarrassed if he tried to suck on her like that so early in a tumble. Once she started babbling, well. Lots of things pleased her then. 

Thinking of her made his root clench tight again. He moaned in agony. 

Another woman laughed - a hand petted his hip. Close, yet impossibly far, for he couldn’t roll even a quarter-turn. Gan made sure of that. To protect him, to keep the avadha from being able to claim his rose.

Link wasn’t sure he wanted protection anymore. 

The women giggled at him, and their hands in the darkness wandered over his body, everywhere but where he needed them most. 

Link wriggled and squirmed to gasp at the open air, babbling desperately. “Please, oh  _ please _ just a little. Let me loose just a minute or help me, please, it hurts  _ so bad _ . Oh jacheli - tell them I need it.”

Gan laughed at him. “Beware the wicked wish, little hero.”

Link groaned in despair, and sank heavily back into the cushions. He unfurled his tongue to beckon the woman to move herself closer. She squeaked and quivered for him right where she was, seeming to prefer the necessarily light flicks of the tip of his questing tongue.

A few breaths later,  _ Link _ was the one who yelped. One of them grasped him so hard a sharp jolt stung him from root to navel. She rocked her fist, trying vainly to make his skin move along his shaft, but he was far too hard for that. He was pretty sure he heard her laughing at him - and then burning wet touched his aching tip. Link hissed at the shocking intensity. He moaned as the heat caressed more of his crown, some of his shaft. He tried to imagine the source - tried to feel the shape of what she offered him. 

She bowed his cock up against his body, covering the glowing flower Gan painted below the girdle-valley. She pressed more heat and wet against his shaft. 

Just as he was deciding she must be licking at him, the woman on his chest rocked forward, apparently done with teasing. She pressed herself against his mouth, saying something he didn’t understand. He tried to listen to the way she moved herself over him, he tried different ways of shaping his tongue.

Her flesh smothered his moan when a heavy sodden heat pressed against his trapped cock. His hips told him of a new pressure also, and he knew she’d climbed astride. She did not take him inside herself, but rolled her silk up and down the side of his cock in a most maddening fashion. It was good, it was wonderful, and he  _ ached _ .

The woman on his chest thrust harder against his mouth, saying something in a sing-song tone. He didn’t need her words to understand her rebuke. 

_ Have you ever known the delight of ladyflowers grinding honey into your pretty face while another oasis wraps tight around your thorn? _

Link moaned, and tried desperately to kiss the one while the other used the hard ridge of his cock to pleasure herself. Her tender bud was surely the deliciousness that kept teasing his crown, and her well, her oasis, her gates were surely the enveloping shape stroking him near his base. 

He longed to be inside her, to feel that softness consume him. He fought to free his mouth again, just enough to gasp and beg: “ _ Hands? _ ”

“Not yet,” rumbled his king from the darkness, and there was such wicked amusement in his voice that his heart clenched to hear it.

Both of the women thrust hard against him. 

After the flood, another woman knelt over him, pressing his arms with her knees, lowering herself directly onto his face. No grinding from below for her. His entire face belonged to her. She offered him air in a kind of rhythm, as if she  _ knew _ how long he could endure pleasuring her. His jaw ached, and he could barely manage to give her anything, but that didn’t seem to bother her.

During one desperate gasp, the other woman - maybe the one who’d been grinding on him, maybe someone else, caressed his sodden cock once and only once. She teased her fingertips down the top of his shaft to rest against his base. Heat touched his crown again.

Tight, slick, forge-hot.

He cried out, losing all the wind he’d just drawn.

She sank down, all the way to the hilt.

“ _ Lady Bright _ ,” yowled Link, but sodden cunt on his face interrupted his half-formed prayer. He heard only the hammering of his own pulse and the sharp  _ pop _ of air sneaking past the wet flesh of her thigh sliding against his ear. His mind surrendered all grasp on reason. All there was for him was heat, was silk and cream, was the vibration of pleasure through his flesh.

When the woman on his face was done with him, he panted and groaned and tried to remember words. Wet silk moved against his hands. A hand in the darkness seized his still-throbbing cock, and he realized in that moment he couldn’t remember the other woman dismounting. He couldn’t even remember if he’d cum. The ache said maybe he hadn’t. The startling electric shock when she settled onto him said maybe he had. 

He tried to arch his hips into her, once. It didn’t work very well. He gave up and let her do what she liked. He panted for air. He tried to understand what the woman on his hands was doing and if she wanted  _ him _ to do something. He wondered distantly if she wanted his fingers inside her, or if she truly prefered to rub her softness over the ridges of his knuckles.

Another woman chattered at him and started to climb onto his chest.

Link stretched his tongue up into the darkness, hoping he would be able to kiss her well enough. Or at least that surrendering his tongue would be what she wanted. His entire face ached, and with the way they all moved on him, he was pretty sure his dusty shards of memory weren’t enough to please them without their efforts.

Gan growled something from his left.

Link turned his head, blinking blearily at the glowing ancestral crest and the elaborate spirals and undulating lines and whirls defining his beloved king. He whimpered when Gan’s strong hand grasped his shoulder, but it didn’t last. 

Gan reached past him to grasp at the darkness. He growled again, in Hylian. “You’re doing it wrong.”

Link whined and tried to object. The woman above him yelped, and her knee tapped his cheek a little harder than he was ready for, conjuring scattered lights behind his eyes. The other two women kept riding him. The shivering intensity pulled him entirely off balance. He felt like he was tied to the bottom of a fishing boat adrift on Lake Hylia in the middle of a thunderstorm.

Except the thunder was beside him instead of above him. The storm was moaning in pleasure. Kneeling in square, refolding himself in lotus, bowing low. Shadows draped his shoulders - his face, the bright crest vanished into darkness above his bright hands. Only a few glimmers of light caught in his hair danced above the velvet black.

A woman howled in delight.

“ _ Oh _ ,” panted Link. He stared at this writhing glow, and he listened to his beloved King drink from her cunt like she hid Terminan chocolate inside her. Or rather, he listened when he could - the woman fucking him moved harder, faster, some kind of madening roll. She stole what was left of his wits, and it became hard to even keep his eyes open. Half his breaths came out as pathetic whimpers.

Every howl and moan and oath from the king and stranger beside him made it worse.

When he came, his throat hurt from yelling. 

It was a good kind of hurt, but his limbs were twitching and aching  _ and she wasn’t done riding him yet _ . He begged for mercy. Or tried to. He wasn’t sure his tongue made any actual words. His hands felt sticky and wrinkly from wet, but he didn’t feel the woman using them anymore. Or else he was so numb he couldn’t tell.

He could  _ definitely _ tell when the woman beside him came under the tongue of her king. Her song was very nearly a scream, and the shadows writhed somehow. His skin said she was bucking wildly, but he didn’t know how he knew that. Maybe it was the breeze her flailing stirred. Or maybe he was just imagining it. Or remembering that happening in another life when he’d last heard such sounds from a woman.

His  _ nose _ ached. 

The realization startled him. He couldn’t remember anything hitting his nose - none of the women using his tongue had bucked that hard. Probably. 

He was on the point of deciding it was a memory when his king panted and growled and made wet sounds like he was licking his lips. He said something. 

The woman panted  _ yeah _ .

Intricate patterns of light rocked back, rearranged themselves, his shoulders and bright profile reemerging from the dark. His hands reached, and the spirals on his hips vanished from view. One hand cupped the shadows low, another clasped shadows against his chest. He panted and murmured something. He purred. His hands shifted in some incomprehensible pattern. He moaned, long and deep. He tipped his head back and cradled the shadows against himself. His light moved only a few inches, swaying back and forth hypnotically.

“Lotus,” murmured Link in wonder. It couldn’t be anything else. He couldn’t imagine quite how their bodies fit together, but he  _ knew _ . The feeling in his chest as he watched the light move against the darkness was worlds away from how he remembered sex feeling in other lives, from what it was like when Gan wanted to be fucked before they rode into the black wind, from how he felt inside the stranger who still rode him. If she was even the same one from before his mind blurred. 

The way Gan sighed and purred said it was good to give of himself that way. The soft song of the woman said it was beyond good to be held that way. To merge bodies in lotus seemed less like sex and more like something magical and wondrous and deep. 

Link envied her.

He turned away, but their duet followed him. The warm delight of a woman riding him couldn’t quite soothe the regret that he would never _really_ know what it was like for them.

“More, please, thirsty,” he rasped. Or at least he hoped that’s what he said. He needed the distraction.

Lotus with the king lasted a long time. 

Link lay among sodden cushions, too drained to be ticklish anymore as strangers traced the patterns on his skin. He listened to the soft harmonies beside him, and he listened to the muffled drums somewhere in a courtyard of the estate. Somewhere, a komuz sang. Somewhere, women spoke in low tones. In the darkness, shadowed hands raised glowing cups to faintly glowing lips. 

Without warning, savory hum became sharp cry became howl.

“ _ Yes _ , flower for me,” purred Gan. “Open up. Let go. Let it come. Blossom, just like that.”

Link dared a glance at them again, baffled by the stillness of the light. Over and over, Gan coaxed her in Geld’o and in Hylian and in a strange tongue he didn’t know at all. Her voice rose still farther, resonant and raw. Link couldn’t understand what was making her cry out, when Gan wasn’t moving and her shadows didn’t seem to be moving much either. He wondered if Gan was doing something by secret magic.

He licked his lips and tried to be less jealous of their embrace.

It didn’t work.

He wasn’t the only one jealous though - barely a dozen breaths after she fell silent, another shadow pulled her away with a curse and demanded something.

Gan chuckled darkly - and let the shadows sort themselves out. All the closeness with the other woman only few moments ago fell away, and he spoke to the one with the strident voice instead. Back and forth, quarrelsome and sardonic, sharp and smooth.

The woman said something perhaps a little  _ too _ sharp.

Light snapped.

She yelped in startlement.

“Hn,” said Gan. Another bright snap, another thread of gold from nowhere.

The woman said something hurried, her tone conciliatory - but it was too late. Her king rose from lotus. He grasped her and tossed her beside Link as if her weight meant nothing to him. He hauled her into whatever unfathomable arrangement he wanted her in, which seemed to involve a lot of large movements and perhaps an argument. 

Gan won, of course.

The side of his knee rested against Link’s waist. 

It was nothing, and yet it drew his entire focus. Even though another woman was laying against his other side and pulling his face towards her breasts.

Gan grunted and the cushions shifted as he moved. Smack and snap, another tiny little thread of light, and the rough-voiced woman  _ laughed _ .

Link struggled to listen to the confusing mess of their entanglement. He was pretty sure the woman who wanted his mouth on her nipple now would climb onto him soon enough, as the others had. He wasn’t ready. He couldn’t understand why he was hearing such vulgar wet sounds  _ and also _ flesh striking flesh  _ and also _ gentle hums  _ and also _ the sizzle-snap of all-too-familiar magelight threads.

Gan groaned.

Link whimpered, partly because the jealousy was rising again, partly because the sound resonated inside him in a way that made his tired flesh stir. It didn’t make sense. Neither had that secret night in the rain when he spied on Gan pleasuring himself in camp.

Gan grunted and dropped his weight forward, leaning heavily on one hand.

Which he planted next to Link’s.

He growled and grunted - and extended his smallest finger to trace a tiny whorl against the side of Link’s hand. More than once. Almost a beckoning sort of feeling.

It didn’t make sense. He was clearly fucking someone, more likely than not in a rough pattern. And yet he seemed to want Link to turn his hand. Open his hand. Thread their painted fingers together in the tenuous cover between their bodies. 

Link held his hand and let wordless pathos fall from his lips in the few moments he had before another avadha would claim the use of his tongue. He didn’t understand the feeling, but maybe Gan would.

One of the women touched his stirring cock first.

“Oh _ goddess _ ,” moaned Link.

It was the one after that which nearly broke him. 

Gan had finished with the rough woman long ago. He lay on his back at Link’s left side, his light mostly hidden under the two women who now rode  _ him _ . He rumbled and rocked his hips and caressed their thighs, one hand for each of them. He seemed tireless as ever, passionate as ever, as if he had never known any injury or weakness in his life.

Link wondered briefly if he was using magic.

Then someone grasped his cock tight, tugging and pumping, demanding that he rise for her. She forced her hand between his bound thighs to touch his sack from behind, seeking the dense squishy place hidden under it that Gan called the orchid root.

“Oh no, please, it hurts. I can’t, not yet, it hurts,” he babbled.

The woman laughed at him. She called him a silly Hylian.

“No really,” he begged her. “I need more time - whoa, easy - gentle. Please, oh please, not like that, ok?”

She laughed at him again, and let go.

Link heaved a sigh of relief that turned into a desperate squeak when she climbed on top of him anyway.

She rubbed her - very extremely wet - cunt against his cock, and said something long and teasing that ended with the same  _ silly Hylian _ .

“Goddess Bright how are you dripping already-?” Link gasped, not really expecting an answer.

She laughed. Again. “He like?”

“Yes but-” 

She interrupted him by grasping his cock. Again. 

Link moaned.

She thrust him inside of her, guiding his angle with her hand as she sank down, laughing.

Electric, but also soft. Sharp, but also wet. He babbled and wriggled, desperate to have his hands free. Of all the entanglements in the longest of all nights, when the world could have burned, but didn’t, for this one dance he needed that leverage more than ever. And he couldn’t get it. “Oh  _ gods _ \- that’s different-? How? Oh go easy please - I - it's so much, so hot.”

She laughed at him and bowed low, keeping him firmly inside her - thankfully generous - depths as she murmured in his long ear: “Caldisu rajena’v, yadaj.”

_ King’s Milk, Hero. _

Link moaned and throbbed, and surrendered.

_ Once the lantern burns, Hero, it burns. _

Dawn came and went.

Morning whispered past without waking them.

Afternoon likewise.

At twilight, their bodies demanded food. The magic absorbing all light in the royal suite left with the last of the women, but the enchanted feasting pots stayed. Link mirrored his beloved King and drank strong black tea that barely stirred the cobwebs in his head. He shamelessly stuffed roast meat and honeycake in his face until his stomach begged him to stop.

They retreated to the luxurious private bath on the terrace, emptying another pot of tea between them as they soaked.

Gan watched him through the entire slothful evening with a quiet air of amusement, eyes bright with mischief despite the long night, despite the vague clouds remaining in the right. The scars on his face had mostly vanished, except a few subtle places along his hairline or tucked into his sideburns, and the one crossing his blind eye. His strong hands carried no marks whatever, and his arms only a handful, all narrow and shallow, completely healed. The paleness might be hidden by cosmetics, or maybe that too would fade.

The gouges along his hips and sides seemed more or less knit shut again, though the wreck of the vast platform bed suggested they had been very much the opposite all too recently. Link didn’t agree with his approach at all, but there was nothing he could do to correct it. He could only encourage what seemed good, and hope.

Accordingly, he lingered in the steaming water with Gan for  _ hours _ . He didn’t seem inclined to talk, but he did let Link snuggle against his side. So he did. 

Gan  _ yawned _ .

“I didn’t know you could do that,” murmured Link.

“Hn?”

“ _ That _ . Being tired. You told me you’re a mortal king. But you never act like it. Always strong and sharp and swift. Never  _ sleepy _ .”

Gan snorted. “Absurd. You’ve seen me asleep hundreds, maybe thousands of times. Tens of thousands, if we count your past lives.”

“Sleep _ ing _ and sleep _ y _ are different,” grumbled Link. “Is it always like this?”

“Hn? Festival? Sometimes,” rumbled Gan with a shrug.

“How often?”

Gan snorted again, softer. “When I say so.”

Link prodded his side, careful to stay away from the wounds.

“Mostly holidays,” conceded Gan, drifting his hand over Link’s damp shoulder. “Didn’t enjoy your little taste of  _ culture _ , little wolf?”

Link groaned, and stretched, and collapsed against his beloved again. Which probably wasn’t fair, since he’d danced even harder, longer. “Please tell me there’s no riding today.”

“Hn,” said Gan, dipping his hand below the water, drifting low to cup his hip. “Maybe riding  _ you _ .” 

“Oh  _ goddess _ , no-! Please no, don’t _don't,”_ cried Link, lunging away. Not very effectively, given they wallowed in a sunken bath deep enough for the water to reach the center of  _ Gan’s _ chest when he sat on the tiled shelf. “Don’t touch it-! Don’t think about it-! Don’t even  _ look _ at it!” 

Gan laughed.

Link wailed. He tried to push towards the far side of the little pool, but his limbs tangled and trembled between the weight of the water and that of exhaustion. 

Gan laughed as he sat forward, catching Link’s arm easily, dragging him back through the water despite his flailing. He caught Link securely in his strong hands, and bowed to kiss his ear. When he murmured, it tickled inside his ear, inside his head, all the way down. “Surrendering already, Hero?”

Link tried to swear, to object. It came out in a garble of cracking, meaningless syllables and twisted babble. It wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t possibly expected to manage  _ sensible _ words with Gan stroking his chest and wrapping him close to his massive body.

Gan, of course, only made it worse with laughing. Full and open and rich and as close to unreserved as he ever seemed to be. “You liked it.”

“Not the point,” whined Link, when he could finally manage. Or at least he’s pretty sure that’s what he said. That’s what he meant, anyway.

Gan remained impervious to his petulant complaints. He rumble-hummed something like contentment, and slipped off the bench to sink lower in the water, lifting Link enough to tuck his face into the hollow of his neck. Even though it underscored how  _ very _ sharp the differences between them, somehow it was also - nice. 

“Vo’jacheli’v rajena,” he mumbled with a contented sigh of his own.

Gan sighed, and clicked his tongue in censure. “You can’t contract contractions.”

“Don’care,” grumbled Link.

Gan clicked his tongue in disdain - but his embrace tightened. “What a beautiful disaster you are, my Champion.”


	22. Gentleness - 7 of ?

On the fourth day after winter solstice, Ganondorf accepted three horses, a small tribute of garments, and basic provisions from the Hakoum estate. Again he placed Link on Asifad’s back, and he made clear he wanted Link to remain in his - now clean - green livery, though he added to this a vast mantle woven in the sacred pattern of the gods’ teeth, and an elegantly simple circlet of polished platinum set with eight fire opals. The blanket from the first estate he relegated to serve as barding on his own borrowed chocolate mare.

No one could look at him now and not see at once that he was favored by their King.

At the hour of madness they rested under a simple canopy. At twilight Gan taught him how to raise the campaign tent more efficiently with clever use of ropes and counterweights. At night, they lay entwined in a nest of dark blankets, more-or-less chaste. He sought nothing more, and he seemed oblivious to any hesitant tease that would have at least bought a chuckle before the battle. 

At dawn he worked more magic. As always.

He still wouldn’t speak much. 

Small things, rumbled asides about the food, the landscape, the weaving, the songs of his people. Never as much as Link craved to learn, rarely anything personal, never uncut praise of these things, and only in private did his sardonic expression ever soften.

Every day, Gan wrapped himself in an enveloping red-and-gold kaftan over black-and-gold kurta and labyrinth-weave black trousers, and when they rode, he layered over all of this the gods’ teeth mantle he’d summoned before. He kept the tiny gold ornaments in his hair, and he continued to apply his cosmetics in the new pattern he began after solstice. Link decided he must have designed it to draw attention away from the blindness of his right eye. 

He looked regal and dignified, intense as ever, though his usually flamboyant manner gave way to a kind of haunting gravitas. The elaborate cosmetics made it worse - around the left eye he’d added gold flourishes the the usual heavy kohl, but on the right he mirrored the embellishments in luminous dye, which in the daylight appeared as a chalky pale gray. 

No one said anything about it, not at the Hakoum estate, and not at any others they passed as Gan took them in a wide southeasterly arc.

Few avadha were even bold enough to look at their King directly for very long.

They were not so discreet when it came to him. His command of Geld’o improved too slowly - no one but Gan himself dared criticize his accent directly, but he could see it in their expressions, hear it in the clipped way they spoke, cut without grace to fit his Hylian ears. They sparred with him readily enough, and always laid a place for him at the right hand of their king at mealtimes. But they did not _like_ him.

Gan did not declare further festivals. He heard petitions under two blue lanterns at a few of the estates, but never for more than two hours, and many requests he answered with a detached not-quite-promise to consider it. 

After the third such audience, Link was ashamed to realize the common thread in those requests was _magic_. Gan pretended to perfect health, but every night Link touched his skin in secret, mourning the deep scars.

Something in the light magic wounds resisted healing. 

His heart ached to consider why - Link _knew_ his heart of hearts _must_ be good, if troubled. The Light _should_ have embraced and uplifted his true spirit, not cut him so deep the greatest sorcery in the mortal world struggled to weave from it even a superficial image of strength.

He couldn’t understand why the gods continued to punish him for surviving a life of dire prophecy and torment, for being even a _little_ tempted by the supreme power to end everything he despised.

Except - he also knew it wasn’t a _little_ temptation. Had the door to the sacred realm opened, Ganondorf would have seized the divine relic without hesitation. The first and oldest cry of his spirit was _always_ power. Absolute, irrefutable, supreme _power_.

After all, not even gods could ever again hurt a man with the power to manifest _anything_.

Another estate appeared on the horizon as Link considered what consequence such divine judgement would render for the things _he’d_ done, and been tempted to do. He never really _chose_ to be a hero. He was thrust into it. Unlike Gan, _he_ had the ability to run from his fate for as long as he pleased, with little consequence to anyone.

Unless - the nagging voice of some too-serious child warning of the danger of “blue magic” and spirits becoming lost in time was something rather worse than a dream.

Gan startled him from his thoughts with some nonsense about green banners. Link didn’t even voice half a question before Gan tipped his head back to loose a wild and warlike cry that sent shivers down his spine. Gan laughed, unthreading the leads of their tired remounts. He leaned low over the mare’s neck, and that quickly they bolted ahead. The other two horses doubled their lope to follow, and even Asifad hopped into a brief caper in his master’s wake. It didn’t last - all of them were justly tired from many long days of pushing across the harsh scrubland. 

Link clenched his teeth on the irritation of being left behind with so little ceremony or explanation. At length he finally persuaded three horses to maintain a lope the rest of the way to yet another walled estate and _another_ host of strangers with orange flowers and strident brass horns and a hundred thousand silent questions he couldn’t begin to answer. 

The entire estate sang, and Ganondorf with them. His tired mare danced in subtle fidgets over the carpet of orange flowerpetals. He ignored her rebellion as he never otherwise would. He sang full-throated, _leading_ the stirring rondo he so often cut short when his people offered welcome. 

_Something about this place is different._

Link made Asifad stop just inside the gate. He wasn’t sure if he should dismount - usually he followed Gan. He couldn’t understand _why_ the pattern changed in this place. The women in the court wore mostly the same colors as everywhere, though perhaps more seemed to prefer their color sprigged on a white or cream ground, instead of dyed solid. The banners on the eight towers did have _some_ green, but in a rather garish stripe with white and orange.

The song shifted, following Gan’s voice as he layered a rich, dark harmony into it which sent a chill down Link’s spine. The faint thread of the bright strings somewhere in the crowd began a high trill, even as the drums slowed and the Gerudo drew out the last words, raising their fists in mirror of their King. His voice fell silent, but the horns blared out to fill his place.

_Vo’hei. Rajena. Chalut._

_Glory to the flowering of our hope._

A short roll of the drums on a final _vo’hei_ , then silence. The hidden komuz plucked the key phrase one last time, slower, without flourish. Just pure, single notes. 

Ganondorf tilted his head, sweeping his golden eyes over the crowd. The women lowered their fists. In the silence, Ganondorf swung off the broad back of his mare and stalked toward the stairs of the central building in this forward court. As with every other estate, the tallest women in the crowd stood no higher than his shoulder.

A woman in blue checked with white and green stood upon the first step. She held some silver dish with unidentifiable offerings toward him.

Ganondorf looked down his long nose at her, and his wry grin faltered.

In public.

The woman holding the tray was not who he expected or wanted to see, and he _felt something_ powerful and unpleasant to realize it.

Even so subtly - his perfect command of the mask faltered _in public_.

Link forced himself to let go of the sword at his hip.

“Where is the master I chose to lead this house-?” Gan rumbled softly to the woman. Not yet a threat.

“The one who maintained this house in the name of my King serves it still,” said a harsh-voiced woman as she stepped from the shadows beyond a secondary set of open doors into the central building, to his right. Where he likely couldn’t see her well. If at all. She wore a bold green mantle and elaborate jewels in the form of writhing snakes with green garnets in their fangs. 

Link shivered to realize her adornments perfectly matched the jewels _he_ was buried with, in some long-lost life. He couldn’t begin to guess what they meant - but Gan’s sharp attention refocusing on her in a single heartbeat said it was _important_.

“Vo’hei Ghed vo’ Ganondorf, chalut vo’ ikhusa,” she said, bowing far less than any of the other leaders had.

Gan climbed the remaining steps two at a time, his golden eye fixed on her alone. “ _Nialet_.”

She tipped her head, her copper hair streaked with silver at the temples. “Savai O va’Rajena, who stands in my garden at the hour of madness with a sweaty horse and a Hylian warrior at his back. Who do you need us to bury-?”

“Hn,” said Gan, crossing the last pace to seize her in his massive hands and pull her off her feet in the silence. He crushed her to his broad chest, holding her as easily as if she weighed no more than a storehouse cat. He kissed her brow and buried his sharp nose in her hair, and he said nothing else.

Link stared in open-mouthed shock - and he was not alone in doing so. Desert customs seemed to discourage direct attention to anything not immediately a matter of business between those involved. To stare at this unsettlingly _intimate_ greeting between King and vassal was surely a deep insult. 

And yet-!

No one in the courtyard could look anywhere else for long. Even when holding turned to kissing. Deep and passionate and completely devoid of consideration for their audience.

Link watched it happen in something like horror. _He_ had kissed _Malon_ like that, once, long ago, in a world he could barely remember. He knew what it was to be so full of feeling he thought his ribs might crack from inside. He knew the ache of longing and the incandescent satisfaction of finding home. He knew in his bones what it felt like to twirl a woman through the air - and, worse, the texture of the feelings that would drive him to do it.

Whatever her name or rank or title, for all practical purposes, Gan was greeting this woman, this stranger, _as a beloved wife._

And.

 _And_.

Gan once kissed _him_ like that, beside the restored oasis after the battle.

Link made him stop - and everything between them had changed.

He could have had a share of what Gan freely gave this stranger now.

And he said _no_. In the strongest possible way. He refused to accept the embrace of his beloved for what seemed like good reason at the time, and now he must live with the consequence. 

Gan embracing this stranger. Kissing this stranger. Smiling at this stranger. Speaking low to this stranger with her wide eyes and rigid shock. Resting his hand on this stranger who seemed as surprised by her King as everyone else. Sharing some private joke at Link’s expense with this stranger, all wicked grins and pointing fingers, mocking his foolishness. 

Link fled.

Greater than the indignity of one’s own folly is being dragged back from it by a handful of veiled strangers. Greater still is the shame of being disarmed and dumped without ceremony at the feet of the very woman Link least wanted to see, ever again. 

“Savai vo’yadaj chadali,” said Nialet in her harsh voice. “A half-starved white rabbit of a softlander is an _interesting_ choice for the honor.”

“Hn,” said Gan with a deeply wicked grin. “Vah Link of the Greenwood does seem on the small side, but I think even you will find his claws… _unique_ , should he find cause to show them. He chooses to stay with us, for now. Few potential candidates for the Axe have ever fought so fierce as he.”

Nialet raised a brow, folding her strong arms over her bold green mantle. The snake jewels chimed merrily, underscoring her gravitas rather than countering it.

Link bowed his head, cheeks and ears burning with embarrassment to be presented to this woman with compliments woven by _him_ , who praised _nothing_. The veiled guards bound his hands only enough to wrestle him back into the compound, and he could have worked the knots free if he applied himself more seriously. It was easier on his heart to kneel in the dust and play the cowed prisoner. Captives didn’t have to speak unless spoken to.

Gan chuckled darkly, and when Link dared a glance up through the veil of his hair, his stomach churned with jealousy to see Gan petting this woman’s silver-kissed cinnabar hair with irrefutable affection. “You glower now, but you shall laugh anon, kalu’v. The Hylian blood makes him temperamental as a racehorse when he is idle, that is all. But - tell me of this weariness on your spirit. Is Lulu unwell?”

Nialet snorted, looking away. “Nothing out of the ordinary for a child of their age. They are asleep at present, thank the Mother.”

Gan laughed, lowering his voice to a troublesome rumble that reminded Link too much of their entanglements on the long road west. “Then we must endeavor to be quiet, eh kalu’v?”

Nialet tipped her head in wry acknowledgment of his innuendo. “As you wish it, O My King.”

“Hn. I will not clear you for travel so soon after bearing, but I am in a fair mood this day. I _could_ be persuaded to raise a gate.”

“Perhaps in the bustle of war time becomes strange. Lulu is three months awake. As of _last week_. My King.”

Link couldn’t remember how long Malon had needed to recover when their children were born, but he was pretty sure Nialet’s dry rebuke was only a few hairs from outright calling her _king_ ridiculous.

And Gan ignored it. “I _could_ bring Varesh to your table.”

Nialet turned slowly towards him, her stance taut with clear shock. She started at least seven different words before her rough voice creaked through five complete ones that _also_ danced perilously near to treason: “My King. You are unwell.”

“Hn,” he said, stroking her hair a last time and resting his broad hand on her shoulder. “The circumstances which drove your… prior assignments... are no longer an issue.”

Nialet said nothing, but her hand twitched in a gesture of confusion.

Gan bowed just enough to put his uncanny, unmatched golden eyes level with her green ones. His features seemed especially sharp when he focused on anything, but looking up at the contrast of them in profile like that, Link realized just how young Gan really was in this time. He held uncomfortable memories of a sharp, uncanny youth, broad and strong and unbowed by anything, and he held shards of memories of a dignified old King whose passion burned with the concentrated discipline of a steel forge. He’d wasted too many lives measuring the man against the young, brash Nabooru and the ancient witches, assuming the lines about his eyes together with the hunch of his shoulders to be the mark of an older man. Misreading his dark, dry humor as true cruelty. Link knew now how much he owed all of it to a lifetime of struggle.

“ _Do you want va’jathelit here?_ ”

Nialet stared at him, worrying her lip between her teeth.

Gan said nothing else. Did not move. Did not even blink.

Link held his breath, watching them with a sinking sensation he couldn’t begin to explain.

“Yes,” she said at last.

Gan stood. “Then it is done. I will fetch her at twilight.”

“My King,” murmured Nialet.

Gan smiled. Lopsided and wry, but nonetheless - _he smiled_ . For _her_ . “Send someone for chiba and halevi while I untie the _white rabbit_ , yeah? I shall await you under the apricots presently.”

Nialet bowed deeply, the shock still evident in her expression as she murmured an abbreviated ritual salute.

Gan watched her leave, gesturing for Link to rise. 

Hesitantly, Link obeyed. He still didn’t know what to say, but Gan didn’t seem to expect words from him yet, which was both a relief and another annoyance. He tried to shove down the jealousy. He tried to tell himself his own uncomfortable feelings didn’t grant him rights to claim anything of the man beside him. He tried not to read anything into the way Gan touched his wrist as he picked at the knotted ropes.

But Gan never did anything by accident.

“Lose your tongue to a takkuri, little hero?”

Link shivered, casting a wary glance over his shoulder at his enigmatic beloved.

“Hn,” said Gan, sliding one coil of rope over his hand with completely unnecessary deliberation. “Raw flax _is_ mildly amusing, but _leather_. Leather and silk and a little steel to highlight. Or perhaps adamant. Moon-white platinum. Studded with fire opal and green garnet, of course. Maybe some malachite. A few mystic topaz, perhaps, if I still have enough of them with the beryl inclusions.”

“Why?”

“Summerstones suit you,” said Gan with a shrug, golden eyes focussed on his task as if it were a hundred, a thousand times more challenging than it was.

“I mean the rest,” mumbled Link, though the way Gan wrapped a hand around his bicep to keep his arm back even with the ropes off suggested a few possibilities. He’d done that more than once while preparing for the festival at the Hakoum estate. But he didn’t follow through this time. No embrace. No kiss. No teasing innuendo. “You _never_ mentioned a wife. How will you - marry Zelda, when you already have Vah Nialet avadha Davayu?”

Gan laughed, short and sharp. He allowed his hand to slide over his arm a little. “You have much to learn, little hero. State marriage to formalize and secure the bonding of two tribes through the partnership - and often, descendents - of their leaders is one thing. Marriage in the traditional Hylian way, selling a woman into bondage as a broodmare and servant to one man? It is not practiced here, nor will it be permitted to continue _anywhere_ under my reign. Nialet avadha Davayu is not, and never will be, a _wife_.”

Link tore away from his grasp. “I didn’t _buy_ Malon-!”

Gan _laughed_.

“How can you _say_ things like that? It isn’t true at all! _Hyrule isn’t all like that_ . Whatever highborn people do, I don’t know. Nobles are weird anyway and they make up stupid rules for no reason - but _normal people_ getting married is a promise before the gods to be good and faithful, and you write your name in the book in the village temple, so everyone knows which fields and cows are theirs together and when they promised and - and in case something happens, so the children are provided for, because their parents’ names are written and what they inherit and from there you can find more family and-”

“As you found _your_ blood family from words in a book?” Gan toyed with the rope in his hands, coiling and twisting it in his fingers. He looked down his long nose at him with his too-bright left eye. “You need not answer, little hero. I already know. Your heart is too generous to see past what you wish was truth - and what was, perhaps, true for _you_ and your farmgirl in some other mortal life. Among the Geld’o taking lovers is a personal matter of no one’s concern but those directly involved. To settle into a life-bond and establish a new household and family, or to leave one for the other-? Permission to leave _or_ join the House is to be sought from the elder mothers, or if one of the avadha is a warrior, from her commander. There are - rituals and traditions in the celebrations, and the making of a home, but at the heart, that is how it is done. There _are_ exceptions, where elders and chiefs and commanders are at cross-purposes with the lovers, but I am the Law, and it is not an altogether uncommon petition.”

Link swallowed hard, uncertain how to _be_ . Gan spoke in the same wry tone as before, and _seemed_ to be indulgent at first - but his didactic manner neatly avoided the actual question. He raked a hand through his hair, knocking the circlet askew. He wasn’t used to wearing fancy things. “I _do_ want to learn your traditions - I want to know _everything_ about your people. Eventually. But what I asked - is about _you_ , jacheli.”

“Hn,” said Gan, his good eye sliding away to admire the garden, apparently. “Nialet was a petitioner, once. As was Varesh. Whom you have also met. I respect their strengths and skills, and I have not the slightest doubt their ilmaha will enrich the People more every year.”

“That isn’t an answer,” said Link with a sigh.

“Isn’t it?” Gan flashed him a brief, bitter grin. “I am King. I do not require the approval of anyone to do exactly as I please, _with_ anyone I please, whensoever it pleases me to do it.”

Link frowned, trying vainly to tease his meaning from the riddle.

“Hn,” said Gan, tossing the coil of rope to the edge of the garden path and stalking off to another courtyard full of espaliered fruit trees.

The desert wind was more gentle under the apricots and bloodlimes. The quiet, unexpected domesticity of the bandit king was _not_. Somewhere in delegating a blue-veiled woman to bring the refreshments Gan requested, Nialet’s child woke from their nap, and could not be soothed again without their mother’s embrace. Another servant in blue bowed at the edge of the garden and begged indulgence, explaining the delay.

Gan laughed at the woman, shrugging out of the traveling mantle to lounge in the shade in bright kaftan and dark trousers, to all appearances at ease in a way he hadn’t been at any of the other estates. He demanded Nialet keep the appointment as promised, bringing her child with her to meet their King.

_And no doubt - father._

Link paced in the sweltering winter afternoon, rubbing his wrists and fidgeting with the jewels Gan insisted he wear. He listened with half an ear to the conversation - nothing having any relevance to him. Everything was about the garden, or the baby, or the various details of this harvest or that, the state of the small herds, the work of the weavers. The world seemed turned on its head - the ruthless warlord held a tiny child in his hands to purr indulgent prophecies of glory over them. The wicked sorcerer clicked his tongue over the inevitable consequence of a hard freeze too early that autumn. The power-hungry king licked sugar and grease from his fingers and shared the fried spiral cakes with his vassal - _and lover?_

Link struggled with the puzzle, and Gan let him. He hadn’t behaved even a fraction as familiar with any of the other leaders of any other estate - even after the intimate hours of the winter solstice festival. From Nialet’s cautious manner, he could not possibly have made a habit of it with her either. She glanced at him sometimes, when Gan was wrapped up in amusing the baby. Twice, she invited him to sit, both in her language and in Hylian. 

Half an hour later, the baby drifted to sleep in Gan’s arms as they spoke. Nialet offered to take Lulu back into the house - but he shook his head and murmured something uncharacteristically inane about not waking the child. They sat on the stone bench, completely quiet for two more circuits of the garden. Nialet sat with her hands folded in her lap. She watched her king hold her baby, and she watched a stranger pace. She laced her fingers together the other way around. She asked her king if he desired his champion arrayed properly for dinner.

 _Whatever_ **_properly_ ** _means, here._

Gan nodded, still absorbed in watching the baby twitch and burble in their sleep.

Nialet shook her head in unvoiced but nonetheless transparently bemused admonishment.

Gan ignored it.

He ignored a _lot_ of things that would have drawn his displeasure or at least his annoyance in any of the other vassals. He nodded his chin in a silent gesture of dismissal, clearly expecting Link to follow the woman. 

He did not even bother to watch them leave.

Nialet was abrupt in her manners, much like her king, but somehow she seemed warmer towards Link than most of the other Gerudo. She led him to a room where every wall was lined with fragrant spicewood cabinets. She pulled open one after another, revealing hundreds of tidy parcels of cloth in every possible color and shade - even royal logwood black. 

She made him stand on one stool, then another, _then_ pushed two benches together and placed a box on them for him to stand on. She shed her mantle, and demanded the same from him. She paced around the benches, staring at him, her hands folded behind her back. She muttered something indistinct, then ordered him to strip to his underbreeches to be measured by the woman in creamy linen sprigged with blue and green flowers.

“My clothes are fine. He _wanted_ me to wear them,” Link countered with a sigh.

“ _Fine_ is not good enough,” she said in crisp Hylian, gesturing decisively. “Green suits your pale complexion - _to a point_. The tone is wrong for silvery ornament. Nor are those trousers tailored correctly. Remove them.”

“I only _have_ this pair,” he confessed. “Promise you will give them back before dinner?”

Nialet snorted, turning her attention to the cabinets. “You will have better soon enough - though the longer you dawdle and fidget, the farther off it will be.”

“You cannot _possibly_ sew new clothes before dinner,” he said, unlacing his tunic. “It is already the hot part of afternoon.”

“Hn,” she said, pulling a parcel of bright, shimmering blue-green cloth from a shelf. She held it near his skin, frowning in thought. She shrugged in the end, tossing it onto the vast worktable only to return to the cabinets for a darker version of the same.

Link turned to the - _servant?_ \- gesturing helplessly.

The woman raised a brow and folded her arms, raking her green-gold eyes over his body.

 _That probably means she’ll take them from me if I don’t._ “Has he made it a law that I _must_ wear green always now? I don’t want to.”

“Not yet,” said Nialet with a shrug. “You are sworn to Farore, are you not?”

“Among others,” he confessed, pulling his shirt over his head. “Green is - a relic of war. War is terrible. The war is over now.”

“Is it?” She laid a celadon cloth against his skin, wrinkled her nose in disgust, and took it away again.

“ _The war is over_ ,” repeated Link, firm as he could without shouting, though he would never be capable of the kind of commanding tone Gan used so easily. “No green.”

Nialet arched a brow and turned away to consider the cabinets again. She pulled down a narrow bundle of heavy white linen woven with tiny single-pick stripes of sky and rust every thumbswidth or so. “This will serve for the first layer. When Risa is done setting the ties, you will change.”

Link sighed.

The other woman gestured for him to raise his arms. She fussed with winding a heavy cord around his body and tying colored beads to mark his measurements. She did not take the white linen, but gave the cord to a third woman who came to collect it, and picked up a fresh cord to measure his waist and hips again, then every part of his legs as she had his arms.

Nialet opened another cabinet full of figured cloth. She chose, then rejected one of rust and cream, but added a bundle of sky blue and blue-green and white to the heap on the worktable. “A proper arming suit will need most of a week to complete, as we will need to cut and quilt entirely fresh cloth for your size. More rings should be added to the mail, but not today. You have a helm somewhere in your baggage?”

“No. I couldn’t ever get used to the coif,” confessed Link. “What’s wrong with my armor?”

“Nothing, if you continue to wear only two layers of fulled cloth under it,” she countered dryly. She selected a silvery blue cloth embroidered with garish yellow and orange flower-like patterns. “Drape this on the cross-grain and let’s see where the hem would fall.”

“It’s always been fine before,” grumbled Link as the stranger shook out the embroidered cloth and held it against him. 

The pattern proved heaviest at the narrow ends, which was probably meant for the elaborate borders of the loose trousers most of the Gerudo wore, or the lower hem of the long shirts they wore in the evenings. Turned as Nialet ordered, the heaviest ornament would fall either at his wrist, or from shoulder to thigh. They decided the garment would be more efficiently draped that way, but the complexity of arranging the pattern would preclude its readiness that night. Nialet pulled down a parcel of white sprigged with bundles of tiny green leaves and blue flowers. Tiny stripes of woven-in blue, green, and gold adorned the edges instead of the heavy embroidery. 

“It is not _much_ green,” said Nialet with a tip of her head that made the statement an almost-apology in much the same way Gan might avoid a direct admission.

Link sighed, and agreed. “It’s mostly white. That is - easier. Maybe he will let me put the green away for good if I wear this.”

“Maybe,” she said with a shrug, handing the cloth to the other woman, who immediately took it to a second worktable to lay out flat. She indicated a bundle still on the shelves, woven with narrow stripes of every possible color , divided by narrow bands of white. “Will you wear the bow of the gods?”

“Do I really _have_ a choice?” He shook his head, watching the other woman stretch the measuring cord out and weave bright cactus needles into the flat cloth where the beads fell.

“There is always a choice,” said Nialet, her rough voice softening. “You have not lived in the desert long.”

“Not in this life,” agreed Link. “What I remember was never like this. Thank you for - speaking Hylian for me. I am still not good in Geld’o”

“Hn,” she said, turning back to the cabinets. She did not pull down the rainbow cloth yet.

The other woman folded the sprigged cloth in two layers, swore under her breath, and returned to him with the cord to measure again.

“My king is fond of you,” Nialet said, adding another bright cloth to the growing pile on the first worktable.

“We are - bound by circumstance,” Link stammered, heat rising in his face. Every time he felt himself blush, he heard an echo of Gan teasing him for his sensitivity. “It is not like what you have with him.” 

“Fair,” she said with a nod, digging through a basket of bundled silk ribbons she’d pulled from another cabinet. “Stop fidgeting, or you’ll be on the measuring stool all night and miss your dinner.”

Link sighed, and tried to remain patient with the fussing of the servant. “I’ve never seen him like that. I remember the children, in the last life, when he was older, but not like _this_ . And from the moment he awakened me, he’s been so - so _Ganondorf_ . Until now. Until this place. With you, with Lulu. He’s so _soft_. Ganondorf, soft, with an infant in his arms, cooing over her like maiden aunt. I can’t understand it.”

“War Kings have children too,” she countered with a wry grin entirely too much like her King’s. “Have you none of your own, yadaj chadali?”

“For love of light Vah Davayu,” groaned Link, dropping his arms back to his sides gratefully. It seemed stupid to be tired from standing still. “What does that mean? Why is everyone so _weird_ about it?”

“It’s complicated,” she said, adding an unpleasantly _green_ ribbon to the pile. “The _words_ roughly translate to Moon’s Champion.”

Link winced. He didn’t much like to think about his fractured memories of _moons_.

Nialet folded her arms and watched the servant cut the white cloth with a bright knife, and take the pieces away to a side room. Only after she left did Nialet speak again. “If he does find the Moon’s Fist _and_ raise you to the Champion’s Axe? You will be the equal of the Exalted Sun. Even though you are Hylian.”

“Nabooru is - very powerful in this life, I think. People won’t like that,” he said quietly.

“Chalut often lead our people,” she said with a shrug that revealed nothing of her opinion. “To bear both _yadaj_ and _chadali_ , you may be called to speak before both war council and elder mothers. It is - a very long time since both the Moon and Sun have stood beside a Great King, and the histories do not sing of a sister opposite a lover before.”

“I don’t know how to lead an army,” whispered Link, ice piercing his gut.

Nialet snorted. “You won’t. The Exalted Sun and Sun’s Ray have _that_ in hand. The path of the moon moves inward. The first Exalted Moon guarded her King and led his Elite, yes, but the Golden Legions followed the Exalted Sun.”

Link fidgeted, glancing toward the small lattice-screened window as memory reminded him of Nabooru’s contempt for the honorless evil king - and the shock of confronting deadly battle prowess under the surface of the ‘lone wolf thief’. The light was already beginning to fade. Sword drills would begin soon, but Gan hadn’t ordered him to join them yet. “Vah Davayu-”

“You want to know my rank,” she cut in, wry and sharp.

Link nodded, turning back toward her.

“Hn,” she said, her lips curving in a lopsided grin. “I am a Voice of the Stars for him.” 

“I don’t really know what that means. It sounds important, but somehow - hidden.”

“You are more clever than you look, little rabbit.”

Link’s ears burned fiercely. Nialet was _far_ too much like her King for comfort. He swallowed the bitterness on his tongue, forcing the whisper past his teeth. “Do you love him?”

Nialet didn’t react for a long, long moment.

“Sorry,” said Link, bowing his head and trying desperately to smother the uncomfortable tangle of worry and regret.

“Yes,” she said softly.

“Sorry,” mumbled Link again. He fought the urge to run again. He didn’t really want to be dragged through the public courts twice in a day, much less in his underwear.

“Don’t be. I am _glad_ to see my King at greater ease than he has ever been _in his life_ ,” she countered without hesitation this time. “I know a little of the price the gods demand in exchange for his kind of power.”

“Not just the gods.”

“I know,” she returned with far greater equanimity than that truth should allow for - and to be so accustomed to that horror attested to how long she had carried the sorrowful truth in painfully necessary secrecy. “Dead or in Exile?”

“The Evil Rova are dead and buried under a hundred thousand tons of ancient stone,” confirmed Link. “The demon they revered is sealed. I _will not_ let him rise again.”

“Savai Deasa Ikhusa,” said Nialet with an edge that suggested she had sharpened the words many times.


	23. Gentleness - 8 of ?

Sitting still for a stranger to poke at one’s eye with hot kohl-sticks would be a heavy task for anyone, but especially so the first time. Link wasn’t sure how to feel about the effect - whether the dark pigments staining his skin are a good change or merely shocking. Either way, the cosmetics have turned his reflection into a mask he doesn’t know. It was different when Gan painted him for the festival.

He wasn’t sure how to feel about the pants - the sirwal - they brought him, either. The sprigged white fabric was gathered onto deep slit cuffs and a fall-front yoke with large stitches in some heavy, yellow-gold thread. Ribbon dyed such a deep green it seemed black in low light - no doubt on purpose - was whipstitched over the joined cloth, and from the waste of cutting the small pieces, they fashioned him a trapezoidal bandeau almost like their own. Gan did not wear such a thing, and by Hylian standards it would have been a woman’s undergarment, yet the ribbon accent and jeweled clasps to anchor it on the snake pectoral made clear it was intended to be a visible thing. 

Nialet did, however, have the compassion to offer him an open sort of coat with boxy, half-length sleeves. The clever servants somehow fashioned it from a single square of figured cloth, whipping together a single long seam on each side to make sleeves and body. It was nowhere hemmed, though he suspected additional work would be done on it when the servants inevitably took it back for washing. Gerudo estates were just  _ like that _ , and the people themselves seemed to regard plain clothing as distasteful or at least embarrassing.

The pattern of the printed cloth didn’t look familiar at all, and he suspected it was stamped while other servants worked on the sirwal. The silk certainly felt pleasant, both light and warm as well as soft. The  _ color _ though was a pale grass green at one angle and silver from another. The all-over curving pinecone, star, crescent, and nine-rayed sun stamped in dark silver ink though was  _ far _ worse. Every thread announced him as being something he barely understood. They didn’t even let him keep his boots, but presented silvery kidskin slippers, sewn with more of the green-black ribbon.

It reminded him uncomfortably of awakening in the Temple of Time in the very first time, clothed in a body that was a stranger to him, dressed and pierced as a warrior somewhere in the seven years Rauru stole from him to make him into The Hero. 

Link followed Nialet when she beckoned, and tried not to touch his face or hair. The women had worked hard to make him more fashionable, and even if he felt strange, he didn’t want to insult their efforts. It wasn’t  _ their _ idea to paint him up, after all.

The carved ironwood doors to the central building all stood open, and the ground floor blazed with lamplight. Every room stood open to the next, making one enormous space out of a dozen smaller ones. Gerudo sat on cushions and rugs everywhere, and though he saw small clusters of women in like colors as it was with every estate, there were just as many mixed groups in this place.

And there were  _ children _ .

_ Dozens _ of Gerudo children, eating with the grownups, and in groups of their own, playing games at the edges of the rooms. They all wore sirwal and either long kurta for the smaller ones, or bandeau with jacket for the older. All of them wore their hair pulled into braids and queues, and most wore some amount of jewelry - though nothing on their brow. 

Some of the grownups also wore the boxy jacket, so they had not  _ actually _ dressed him in a child’s garments, though most still seemed to prefer loose mantles in the evening. All had removed their veils, and most were already eating and talking with one another. At the other estates, the women waited for Gan or himself to sit in their places first - but at the other estates,  _ everything _ was more formal.

“Vah Nialet-”

“You do not need to give me a Hylian title, little rabbit.”

Link bowed his head in shame, his ears burning. She embarrassed him a lot. Almost as much as Gan.  _ They suit each other.  _ “I’m sorry. I don’t know desert manners very well. But I - need to ask a rude question.”

She tipped her head, looking down her long nose at him with uncomfortable focus. He wondered again which of them picked up the habit from the other, or if it was a deeply rooted  _ Gerudo _ gesture. 

“Sorry. I just - I’ve no memory of so many Gerudo children in one place in  _ any _ life.”

“Hn. Of course not. You are  _ Hylian _ .”

Link shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Our people have been at war for centuries. You  _ know _ this,” she shook her head at him, looking away toward the central stair. “ _ We _ protect our children.  _ Hyrule _ sends hers to war.”

A fat black cushion awaited the King as always, with one silk cushion to the right, also black, and two at the left. One green, closer to the King’s place - and one blue, occupied by a vaguely familiar-looking woman who wore deep indigo ornamented with pale blue and silver.

_ She _ held two infants, and a third small child leaned upon her knee.

“He said your ilmaha would strengthen the People,” Link stammered. “Are they - all these children hidden at the edge of nowhere - all  _ his _ ?”

Nialet snorted, glancing back down at him, gesturing for him to resume walking. “All Geld’o are avadha ikhusa, all of us daughters of the Mother of Sands, except for one. L’voesh tajli is Her Chosen, and we are His as He is ours. Vo’hei Ghed vo’Ganondorf, vo’chalut surai, rajena chalut.”

Inevitably, the women nearby overheard the quiet salute, and raised their voices to echo it. Unfortunately, as the cheers rippled through the connected rooms, many also added salutes to  _ him _ , yadaj chadali, Moon’s Champion.

Link kept his head bowed. He probably was supposed to say something back to them like Gan did, but no one had taught him what, and he wasn’t sure he liked being  _ noticed _ so much anyway. Or at least - he didn’t particularly like knowing people were paying so much attention to him. He wished for his weapons, not because he wanted to fight, but because at least those felt familiar, and gave him something to ground himself with.

“But you are Hylian. You are fretting to think of your King dancing with and bringing rain for so many avadha. This would be considered wicked, in your country.”

Link winced. “To say the least. I mean, I heard rumors, long ago, about the many sins of Ganondorf, and some of them were - very lewd.”

Nialet laughed at him. “I have also heard these things echo back from your country. The mysteries are not - a thing for public conversation. But. I can promise you Hylians think about chains and what might be done with someone in them  _ a great deal _ more than does the Sun’s Ray, and I say that knowing the appetites of my King in  _ some detail _ .”

“I’m not  _ completely _ stupid. I  _ have _ seen a festival,” muttered Link.

“Hn,” said Nialet, folding her hands behind her back. “ _ Seen. _ ”

Link groaned, and seriously contemplated running again, despite the probable result. He didn’t actually want to  _ hurt _ any of them, and  _ any _ disadvantage in a fight with a Gerudo swordswoman is enough to threaten even his undoing - or at  _ least _ his humiliation.

Nialet chuckled, shooing him up the stairs. “Be at ease, yadaj. The ilmaha here are not all festival-born, or petition-born, no. Lulu is the latter, as are Severa and Takra. They are sweet little softlings, and ten rupee says they will like to tug on your bright hair if you give either half a chance. Lulu is more shy, usually.”

“You underestimate the charm of our little Champion,” rumbled Gan from the shadows at the edge of the second flight of travertine stairs. “He can soothe a spooked horse he’s never met - he can surely impress a few curious ilmaha.”

_ Again - praise from him in public! I think I might faint. _ “Did you magic yourself there or did you hide?”

Gan hitched one shoulder in non-answer, his lopsided grin unfairly charming. “Hungry, little hero? There is roast lamb tonight.”

Link frowned. “You are teasing me.”

“Hn.  _ Am _ I teasing him, Varesh?”

The woman in blue giggled, tilting her head to accept a kiss on her brow from Nialet. He probably wasn’t supposed to notice that, or the way Nialet’s hand rested on her shoulder as she folded herself onto the green cushion. But in the garden, Gan  _ had _ referred to Varesh as  _ her beloved _ .

Neither of the women acknowledged him at all, nor did they speak in words. Or not out-loud words. For all Link knew, their brow gems  _ could _ grant them the same power to peer inside the mind of another as Gan did. 

Or - maybe they knew each other so well they didn’t need words.

Gan touched  _ his _ shoulder as he moved to take his place on the larger black cushion. Not long and lingering as between the women, not firm and possessive as sometimes before. Just - a small brush of fingertips over silk, and then it was over, and Gan was sitting in full lotus in his handsome black-and-red-and-gold, gesturing to a servant below as the whole assembly hailed him. _ Glory to the hope of the Golden People, Glory to the Temple of Ganon, the Flowering of the Sands, the Lord of Storms. Glory to his Champion, the valorous Moon. Glory to the Voice, the bright guiding Stars. Glory to the Great King. _

It was  _ mortifying _ . 

And Ganondorf? He basked in the honors given by hundreds of voices as if their absolute devotion and loyalty was completely natural - and looked at ease in a way Link had  _ never _ seen him before. 

Link sat, feeling lost. When the servant brought majir, he drank an entire cup at once and asked for another, to the great amusement of his King, and the women. He tried not to let it hurt, but it did anyway.

They spoke to one another in their own language. Link caught one or two words in five. He didn’t try to follow any closer - and therefore was completely surprised when they decided to shove one of the infants into his arms, probably so Varesh could free her hands to eat. 

Link wasn’t even sure which baby it was, and no one bothered to clarify, returning to their own conversations as soon as they saw he had the child securely. He decided they were definitely one of Gan’s children though, for when they roused a little to wag their fists at him and burble in a distinctly grumpy fashion, he saw their eyes were the same uncanny roc’s gold.

Link’s heart seized in his chest, and his own discomfort melted away before the suspicious glare of the baby in his arms. “Um. Hi.”

The baby huffed at him, frowning ferociously.

_ Definitely Gan’s child.  _ “I know. I’m not who you wanted. I’ve got you though. It’ll be ok. It’s just for now. Look, they’re all still here with us.”

“Vbbrl,” said the child.

“No one is going anywhere without you. Promise. You’re ok. I’ve got you.”

“Brrv.”

“Yeah,” agreed Link, though he wasn’t sure what he was agreeing to.

The baby nodded sharply, entirely as if the unfathomable question in their head was firmly settled, and squirmed to look towards their parents.

Link followed their gaze, and found all three watching with bemused quiet as he talked nonsense to an  _ infant _ . He clenched his jaw tight, but that didn’t stop the painful rush of heat to his cheeks for the thousandth time that day.

The baby wound their fist in his sidelock and yanked.  _ Hard _ .

Gan tipped his head back and  _ laughed _ .

Even in the noise of a crowded room, the resonance of his mirth filled the whole world.

Nilet gestured, and when she caught his eye she mimed the number ten, as Varesh giggled and nudged her arm in rebuke.

“VrrrrbbbllrrbleeEEEE!” said the baby.

“ _ Yeah _ ,” sighed Link, bowing to ease the pain of his hair becoming the little one’s plaything, otherwise helpless. The Hero was the butt of everyone’s joke - yet somehow, for a little while, that was ok.

The adobe stables of the Davayu estate were small, but airy. They only had two enclosed boxes at one end, and all the rest were tethered through iron rings set in the walls and columns of the lime-washed, barrel-vaulted space. It was the  _ least _ adorned Gerudo room he’d seen so far, with a simple painted border of the sacred gods’ teeth where the wall began to curve into the ceiling. Though the windows were tiny, and very high, the Gerudo used clever mirrors to brighten the whole room, which even at night amplified the waning moon considerably. They’d only lit eight lanterns, all with good water-globe shades, all hung so their light would fall into the mirror array also.

The baby drowsed through his muttering about it, and only roused a little when he introduced them to Asifad. The tired stallion shone with care - more than any other estate, the Davayu pampered the King’s horse. The three Hakoum horses tethered beside him likewise were freshly brushed and beribboned, but only Asifad wore gold. It hammered on the fresh wound that Gan was so frequently visiting here that they knew the King’s horse even when himself wasn’t the one riding him.

“It is highest of night, yadaj. Come away,” said a soft-voiced woman from the door. The shadows were too deep there to see her color, let alone her face. 

“I’m fine. Baby is learning how to find the itchy spot under horsie’s jaw, isn’t she? Yes she is, she’s doing so good, Asifad will beg you to stay forever, won’t he?”

The woman sighed heavily. “Not to be bringing the burden so early. Severa is ilmaha. Not  _ she _ . Not for many, many years.”

“Sorry. I am not good with Geld’o yet,” he said, guiding little Severa’s hand along the grain of Asifad’s fine sleek hide.

“ _ Yadaj _ ,” began the woman.

“Severa ilmaha… I don’t know your mumma’s name yet do I? And you’re much too little for a profession. Except maybe spoiler of horses. What is horsie in Geld’o? I forget. We will find carrots somewhere in this godsforsaken desert tomorrow, and spoil him absolutely rotten. He earned it, even if he is a peacock.”

“Bbbllrrrrr,” said Severa.

“Your auntie said all are avadha but one, and in Hyrule everyone knows Gerudo are women, but Hyrule is wrong about lots of things, aren’t they? Yes, they are,” said Link.

“Asali,” said the woman, tugging her mantle higher and stepping down into the stables. “Severa ilmaha Asali, whose spirit was kindled by the Great King and carried into the dawn by Varesh avadha Kharish.”

Link shook his head, turning away from the stranger again. “Sternness, child of fondness? What a silly name for such a small, sweet little apple, hm? Ohh, you  _ are _ getting sleepy,  _ what _ a big yawn.”

“It  _ is _ the highest of night, yadaj, and colder every mark. She is not good with Hylian either, this Kharish, but it is for ilmaha to be coming away even if ghed’yadaj chadali will not.”

Link sighed, watching Severa yawn. He did not want to surrender the baby yet. Holding the child gave him a taste of  _ purpose _ again.  _ Maybe that’s why Gan held Lulu through half of dinner. Maybe he was so fierce because he always wanted a family and the war and the gods and everything got in the way of who he would have been, if not for Ganon. _

“Severa is  _ serious _ , is  _ strong _ , is  _ disciplined _ . Va’salet would mean the fondness of amali Varesh. Asali means only heart, yadaj.  _ Han _ . Aieko yadaj,” she said sharply, looming over him. The shape of her body was soft and generous for a Gerudo, but nonetheless her arms as she reached for the child were steady and strong.

Link had no doubt whatever she’d box his ears if he refused again. “Sorry.”

She grumped at him as she resettled Severa in her arms and wrapped her mantle over the infant. “He have ilmaha left behind?”

“Not in this life,” he confessed, flexing his hands at his sides and trying to settle the sudden flood of tension in his veins. “If it  _ is _ late - at the estate of Hakoum he told me for a bed I should say  _ dorviru rahalin saiev.  _ Or at least I think that's what he said. I know I ruin the words lots, he is forever correcting me. _ ” _

She frowned down at him, her green eyes full of questions. “He does not attend my King?”

“Not really,” said Link with a shrug, unable to stop the blush of embarrassment stinging his cheeks. “I mean. Yeah, ok, I  _ have _ . When he asks. But he didn’t. He is busy with Vah Nialet probably anyway. She is smart and strong and - and  _ oh _ I want a drink.”

She pulled her lower lip between her teeth and glanced toward the door. She shook her head and turned back to him with a frown of deep concern, cradling the baby closer to her chest. “Resting soon - first. Yadaj. Please.  _ What happened-? _ ”

Link winced. “It was a hard battle. Where light arrows and - and the light of the divine sword hurt him, it doesn’t heal the same. I don’t know why. Sorry.”

She hummed in sorrowful thought. “He says - the sword of yadaj is bow of gods.”

_ Why would he tell her about the rainbow helix sword? Who is this woman to him, that he trusts her with so much? How many more not-wives does he have hidden away in the Sand Sea?  _ “I’m sorry the light of my blade hurt his eye. I hope it will heal someday.”

She sucked a sharp breath through her teeth and shook her head at him. “But it is true? War is over? Great Ones dead?”

“If you mean Koume and Kotake, yeah. Together we defeated the TwinRova and I sealed the Calamitous One. The People are free again, and safe. I swear it on anything you like.”

Her eyes flared wide with shock, and she breathed the same reflexive prayer of thanks as Nialet had. She too must have known the truth of the Rova’s evil that so few of the Gerudo ever revealed to him before. 

“It will be ok. I am staying with your people to make sure it  _ stays _ ok.”

She nodded, then shook her head. “He is careful who hears - the Great Rova are _much_ _honored_ by the Geld’o, yeah? And _sinful_ is kinslaying in the green lands too, yeah?”

Link winced. He heard Gan’s voice in his ears again, rumbling about vague ‘prior circumstances’.

The stranger shook her head and pulled a fold of her mantle over her head. “She petitions the King that Nialet may teach him - many things. Yeah? Han. Aieko, yadaj, a dorviru rahalin saiev.”

Link bowed, and followed.

Link sat alone in the tiny bedroom the Davayu woman gave him. He felt wine-sick though he’d only managed one-and-a-half a cups of majir at dinner thanks to the babies. A dozen private rooms exactly like his lined one side of the courtyard, opposite four larger rooms that housed four saiev - swordswomen - each. On the far side of the main gate lay another courtyard, another barracks for the  _ varan _ \- the purple-veiled guards. He suspected that the courtyards beyond the tower at the ends of each probably housed archers and lancers. He wondered if there were two stables also, or only the one against the north wall, on the far side of a vast, regimented herb garden.

He shrugged out of his new jacket and hung it on a cactus-bone peg. There were only eight pegs to choose from. One already held a heavy mantle of sand-colored wool, woven along the edges with the gods’ teeth in the brown of wet garden soil. There was one lattice-screened window with heavy storm shutters and no glazing. The rooms across the courtyard had no windows at all, but double sets of enormous doors: the outer ones of solid black pine banded in iron stood open. The inner doors of delicate spicewood lattice were closed.

The bedrooms of the high-ranking warriors surely represented something like luxury among the Gerudo. The single clay lamp was fitted with a milky glass shade, chased with elegantly simple gold ornament. Below the window hung a clever folding shelf of lovingly oiled marquetry. Pine and maple and spicewood and horseapple and ebony laid in intricate geometry made it into a piece of art when it was not serving as a table or desk. A cubby sculpted in the wall to one side held an ink stone and four brushes hanging from slender iron hooks embedded in the adobe. On the other side, a single bowl, cup and spoon stood ready to serve.

No weapons stood in the rack or lay on the hooks beside the door. Nothing personal graced the room at all. He hoped it was empty because no one needed it, not that someone had been forced to leave it for his sake. He wasn’t sure how he would tell, exactly.

The bed was not even a piece of furniture. A ledge had been sculpted out from the corner of the room, as long as a Gerudo spear and half again as wide as their dazzling shields, with a rounded lip into which a thick pad of quilted felt had been laid. Over that lay a plush, knotted rug in shades of faded red. A modest heap of cushions lay in the corner. A square basket tucked into a special cubby under the bed held blankets, also in assorted reds. 

No private washroom. No clothes chest. No sofas or chairs. Not even a water basin and chamberpot. 

Stepping out of the shadow of his beloved, troubled King meant sharing necessary facilities with everyone else living in the estate, and fetching his own drinking water from the oasis with one of the unglazed jars beside the door when the one he had ran out. 

Link began to wonder if the first estate they visited on the return from the ruined temple was in fact quite poor. The place was certainly small - but the three tiny, multi-function rooms  _ they _ had to offer their King had more in common with the room of an officer than they did with the state rooms in other places. Their warriors performed well upon the sword-flower, where no poor village militia would do half so well in Hyrule. The carved and painted ornament, the bright textiles, the glittering jewelry, the graceful flow of Gerudo art and architecture seduced him into seeing wealth and luxury in the aesthetic comforts the Gerudo made for themselves. He  _ knew _ they were not a rich nation, that food and water were precious to them beyond the flash of pretty rocks. And yet. A one room hut in Hyrule would have a hole in the wall for a window, an open hearth, a dirt floor, a straw bed. No ornament, no rugs. 

A modest family might have cobblestone or wood floors, depending where they lived, and a simple rug or two, flat woven or braided of rags and waste wool. Carpenters might have fancy beds, weavers might have bright clothes, potters and glass makers might have beautiful dishes, but the only  _ art _ in a modest house would be made by the family or a religious icon or both.

The Gerudo lived and breathed  _ art _ . Every functional object was made to be beautiful - and lasting. Everything in the room aside from the ink could well be an antique and he would have no way to know. Nothing was wasted, not even cucco bones or eggshells. 

Many Gerudo wore silk.

Gan told him there were mulberry groves in hidden places in the highlands, where whole tribes devoted their life to nurturing the trees, or the worms, or transforming their cocoons into reeled and combed silk for the artisans of hundreds of tribes. 

The Gerudo wore the finest linen he’d ever touched.

Gan said the spiky leaves of the formidable sun crown plant were harvested, cut, beaten, milked, beaten again, rotted, and beaten again and again until the People had trimmed thorns for pins, milk and beer to drink, and fine supple threads to spin and weave and soften with still more careful beating.

The Gerudo wore bright colors and patterns.

He said there were farms in the bottoms of small canyons where this or that dyestuff was grown, patches of scrubby grassland on gentle hills around the edge of the sand sea. That in places the sands rose up in a great column the size of a village, and climbing to the top would sometimes reveal a barren expanse of scoured rock, and sometimes a sublime oasis.

No one worked for amassing  _ wealth  _ in the way of Hyrule. They worked to  _ live _ , and they worked to make that life beautiful for themselves and their sisters.

And their king.

Whom they showered with the best of everything they had, even if what they had was little and humble. 

Link pulled the kidskin slippers from his feet and extinguished the lamp. He lay down on the lonely bed-rug. He tried not to think anymore. Questions tugged at his mind anyway. 

And - his skin ached for the embrace of a man who had his pick of any number of more suitable bedmates anytime he pleased, and gods only knew how many children from those unions.

_ What is one foreign, uncultured, homeless fighter to all of that? I should be grateful for the gifts my beloved king offers, for the kindness of people who suffered greatly at the hands of Hyrule, and be content with whatever life the Gerudo portion to a yadaj. _

_ It is **so** hard. _

Sleep refused him. 

Link tried every possible combination of blanket and cushion. He tried sleeping on the ground as he had most of his life. He rose and drank as much water as he could bear. He laid down again. He rose and pressed dirt a hundred times. He returned to the bed. He rose still a third time and rotated through every training pattern he could manage in a small room with no weapons. He returned to bed.

Sleep remained impossible. He could not quiet his mind or his anxious stomach. He could not even keep his eyes closed for ten minutes together. 

“Maybe if I walk in the garden,” Link muttered to himself, slipping back into his jacket. 

The night wind suggested he press a blanket into service as a cloak also, but he refused in the hopes that being cold would encourage him to return to bed all the sooner. His memories of traveling in winter were heavy with exhaustion.

He paced the herb garden and the fruit garden, between beds of decimated mums whose wilting petals still carpeted the entry court, under elegant lattice arbors heavy with grapes and jasmine.

His regrets pursued him under the desert stars. 

Link thought again of running.

“You are beautiful in the moonlight,” rumbled the shadows behind him. “Why do you frown at the winterberries so fiercely, little hero? Have they insulted you? Shall I discipline them for daring to sprawl in your path?”

“It’s not the plants,” murmured Link, winding his hands in the sleeves of his fancy new jacket. 

“Hn. Speak then, give your worries to your king.”

_ My worries are my king _ . Link sighed at the night. “It’s nothing. Just can’t sleep.”

“Most people would hesitate to lie to their king,” purred Ganondorf, looming close behind him. He smelled of spices and woodsmoke. He pressed soft wool around his shoulders. “You are not  _ most people _ , yadaj’v, but you are still  _ mine _ . Confess.”

“Am I-?” Link bowed his head, embarrassed to be rebuked thrice in one breath. “What is there for anyone to  _ confess _ when you know everything already anyways?”

Gan’s hand lingered on his left shoulder. “Some words would gain virtue in the speaking even if they were known. Did my sisters forget to give you blankets, little hero?”

“No. The room is fine. Don’t worry about me,” Link stammered. “You should be in bed.”

“Mm. A curious censure from one who asked for a quiet and solitary bed only to  _ not _ sleep in it.” Gan pulled his hand away, stepping back. The absence of his warmth cut as deeply as his sardonic words.

Link tried to turn about, but when he saw Gan stood in the garden wearing only kurta and trousers, he froze. He touched the edge of the soft wool enveloping him, dismayed to find the heavy texture of embroidery under his fingers. He glanced at his feet, but he already knew he would find the wool puddling on the pathstones.  _ Gan sacrificed his own caftan because I  _ **_might_ ** _ be cold.  _ “You were busy with your women. I didn’t want to bother you.”

Gan folded his hands behind his back, looking down at him with his good left eye in that hawkish way he had. “There are many times a king will be  _ busy _ . Will you be jealous of inventories and logistics and the genealogies of my horses next?”

“I’m not  _ jealous _ ,” stammered Link, his whole face hot with shame. “I don’t know what a yadaj is supposed to do and be - and you have Nialet and Varesh and all the  _ other _ mothers of your dozens of children to attend. I didn’t want to be in the way. And I  _ am _ tired, I just can’t  _ sleep _ .”

“Hn.  _ Not jealous _ ,” scoffed Gan, leaning in a little. “I am  _ flattered _ , little hero, but I believe after the last festival tally - for even the seedlings of a Great King must wait nine months to blossom - I have nurtured by hand and by magic well over  _ four hundred _ just since taking the War Crown six years ago.”

Link’s jaw dropped open in horror.

Gan laughed. “Oh hero, you are a  _ delight _ . Come, walk with me and we will speak of these mysteries.”

“No need,” Link squeaked. “I’m fine. I  _ know _ how babies are made. Thanks. Don’t need you to tell me. I’m not smart but I’m not  _ stupid _ .”

Gan laughed harder, unbending his dignity enough to scrub a hand over his face and drop his considerable bulk onto the nearest garden bench as he laughed. “Oh hero, your face, sa’deasa ikhusa, your  _ face _ right now! Come here, oh come here. I won’t bite. Yet. Ha! Sit, sit, just one little moment, sit with your king. When I can  _ breathe _ we will talk, yeah? Sa’ikhusa, yadaj’v. You are something unreal.”

Link burned with shame. He wanted to run. He wanted to drop everything and just -  _ go _ , until his feet wouldn’t go anymore. He even considered using the blue rune in his belly to do it.  _ But I have that magic because of him - in another life, but still him. It seems wrong, somehow. _

Link perched at the farthest edge of the bench, and listened to his king laugh at him. 

“Listen, little hero. What you know about - hn - the  _ making of babies  _ in Hyrule? Forget it,” said Gan with a wag of his finger. “Firstly - I am a  _ witch _ . Do you think I was joking when Zelda and I spoke of succession? Of those avadha who have petitioned specifically to carry a seed from my flesh, perhaps a  _ quarter _ of them petitioned for my touch in the process. Secondly, more than half the petitions for children are a question of aiding lovers who wish to conceive, whether it is a matter of healing or logistics or whatever. Third, any avadha  _ already _ bearing a seedling may come to me to ask that I strengthen, claim, or even end it. Fourth, and perhaps most importantly at the moment,  _ all _ ilmaha born nine months after an avadha attends a festival are by definition  _ mine _ , irrespective of whose flesh joined or didn’t.”

Link stared up at him, struggling to understand. 

Gan leaned down to rumble at him far too close. “Do you have  _ any idea _ how much sex was happening  _ around _ you during the dark moon, jiradath?”

“No,” confessed Link, miserable. “I lost count of yours  _ really _ early. Like, when the first one fucked my face kind of early.”

Gan snorted in amusement. He reached one finger to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. People were always trying to make his hair tidy, but it was too slick and fine to stay put ever. “You do not  _ listen _ , jiradath yadaj. I ask you to consider how much dancing surrounded us  _ both _ that night. Every child that results from those unions in nine months? Every festival-born child?  _ Is mine _ . Understand?”

Link frowned up at him. “So if - a hundred avadha celebrated together, and fifty children are born next fall, they will say you fathered fifty more ilmaha, even if you only lay down with ten of those avadha? If the ones who rode me that way have babies, they will still say my ilmaha are yours too?”

“ _ Ten _ ,” echoes Gan with a sardonic little chuckle. “Charming, but not wrong. It is exactly thus, and with good reason. No one can argue which amali’s house has better claim to the strength, spirit, or education of the festival-born, nor a vaba pressure an avadha into a lifebond with another for reason of an ilmaha, for they are first and foremost,  _ mine _ .”

Link sighed, fidgeting with the kitten-soft wool of his king’s caftan. “The ilmaha of Nialet and Varesh are not festival babies. They are  _ petition-born _ .”

“And you want to ask me the nature of their petitions,” rumbled Gan, still smirking down at him. “It is not merely  _ rude _ but  _ forbidden _ to discuss such details with one who is not involved, yadaj’v.”

Link bowed his head, ears burning with shame.

Gan bowed close and kissed his brow so gently Link felt like a bombflower in a beam of sunlight, within heartbeats of flying into a million pieces. He murmured into his hair. “Fortunate for you that I  _ am _ the Law, hn?”

“ _ Oh _ ,” breathed Link. “I don’t want to hurt or upset these avadha knowing things I shouldn’t, they’ve been so kind.”

Gan chuckled at him, teasing him mercilessly with a feather-light caress along his jaw. “Give me a little tribute from those delicate lips, and we shall call it a  _ petition _ , yeah?”

“I shouldn’t,” whispered Link. He couldn’t help but follow the touch of his king, tipping his head back exactly as Gan asked with his fingertips.

“Kiss me,” murmured Gan, his golden eyes already closed.

Link obeyed.


	24. Gentleness - 9 of ?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SMUT FOR THE SMUT GODS

Summer sunlight soaking into skin.

A chill breath of descending twilight drawing a shiver from bone.

The hands of a fierce war king slipping under his garments to steal his wits.

Link panted for breath when the lips of his king granted him the mercy. The frigid air of a winter night in the homeland of his ancient enemy stung his raw throat and seared his aching lungs. He grasped desperately at Gan’s fine kurta, and still he fell. Still the world tipped and wobbled as his king drank pleasure from his flesh.

Words became impossible forever ago.

He couldn’t piece together any thought longer than a heartbeat.

Gan kissed his lips, his face, his ears, his neck. He pulled his champion halfway into his lap only to bow him backwards, falling, helpless, captive. He conquered with every skillful touch, kindling such need and longing he felt like a fireflower was ripening in his core.

He longed for the release of that torment.

He hungered for more of it.

“My beautiful champion,” murmured Gan against his neck. Soft, purring, sensual.

And then _his teeth_ and tongue sank into his vulnerable skin, and the purr became a growl of pleasure, more felt than heard.

“ _Hahhhh_ ,” cried Link, a strangled desperation under the moonlight. His heart raced in thrill and terror, and a fragile tremor of thought began.

Gan bit him again, severing the thought and provoking more delicate chimes from the tiny golden bells hidden in the coils of the elaborate snake jewels. His hand splayed and clawed at his upper back, untroubled by half of Link’s weight depending on him. The fierce and tender grasp of his king wrapped around his hip, his thumb tracing maddening whorls against the edge of the arousal Link couldn’t even begin to resist.

He trembled and moaned, helpless prey before the passion of his king. Something small and cold and prickly nagged at his fevered mind. Something tried to interrupt the blissful madness. Something discordant cried out when Gan lifted him, dragging him astride his muscular thigh.

“Esha’vo,” purred Gan, tensing his thigh and pulling at his hip to grind a horribly wonderful pressure up against his root. He said it again as he pulled caftan and jacket aside with his teeth. Again as he bit his shoulder. Again as he lifted Link in his strong hands to draw his tongue over his skin between jewels and cloth. _Sing for me._

Link whimpered and panted and sank his fingers into Gan’s short hair and pulled at his kurta and flailed after thought. Just for a moment, he needed to _think_ . Something kept tugging at him, drawing him back from the ecstasy for a heartbeat, or _maybe_ two, and then Gan was scrambling his wits again.

“ _Ohh_ eshla’v areldi,” said Gan against his skin, against the chimera-weave garment across his chest, hot and wet over the agonizingly sensitive nipple he suckled through the cloth.

“ _Ahh-_ nn-n-n- _nah,_ ” Link gasped and babbled. His tongue seeking words and failing. Something, something needed saying, he didn’t know what. It was important, but he couldn’t, he _couldn’t_ , not with Gan devouring him. Maybe it wasn’t important. Maybe it was reflex. Maybe it was fear. Battle he understood. Mindless surrender to the Great Fairies. Endurance in the wild places of the world. Struggle and strife and racing always towards his purpose, running out of time - _these_ things he understood. 

How to live and dance with his beloved, troubled king remained a cipher.

“Star and Sand - _I want you,_ ” rumbled Gan, lifting his prey in his massive hands again - but this time he curled so tightly around his captive his brow pressed against his sternum and his soft lips tickled his bare stomach.

“ _Nnnnuh_ \- Gan - _Gan_ ,” panted Link, letting his head fall back and staring dazedly at the brilliant winter stars.

“ _Why,_ ” moaned Gan, his breath a coil of summer heat soaking into his skin. “Why do you deny me _again?_ I want you, _I want you,_ give me this, just tonight. I will leave you alone after I - I _swear_ I will conquer it - just _tonight_ , give me your song, hero. I - I need to hear it - just once on this side.”

“Oh _Gan_ \- I - not that, _not that_ ,” panted Link, fumbling to still caress his hair from his helpless position. The prodding, pricking, unsettled half-thought tangled with the fear on his tongue. “Can’t _here._ ”

“ _Haaah_ ,” breathed Gan - and nipped at his skin again. Small but sharp, shocking little shards of night wind. “Bit late to be _shy,_ hero. Assure you - Davayu’s loyal.”

“Mnnrgff,” groaned Link, struggling to keep hold of the brittle coherence his king allowed him _only_ because _once again_ his words said the wrong thing. “Not _them_ \- children.”

“Hn,” Gan lowered him to his lap again, nipping and kissing up his body as he did it. “Asleep.”

“Not’f we stay out here,” he panted desperately, his focus fraying once again as Gan set his teeth on his neck. In spite of everything, he ached for more. _Knowing_ his king would return to his not-wives and his duties and his indifference hurt his heart, but for one night, he offered a blissful escape into the intimacy and the dream of love again, and he _wanted_ it.

“ _Where,_ ” breathed Gan, tickling his ear. “Anywhere. The shadows belong to me - speak any place in the world eshla’v areldi.”

“A _bed_ would be nice,” he groaned.

“Hn,” said Gan, nipping at his ear. “Mine is a little - _occupied_. Which officer’s court did she assign you to?”

“Sword,” said Link, even though the pain of knowing himself for - not even a _second_ choice - a mere third helping of lust twisted his gut in a knot.

Or - maybe it was the shadows twisting him inside out.

One moment he was in Gan’s lap, and a breathless shock of vertigo later, Gan tipped him over entirely to pin him to rumpled sheets in the dim confines of his borrowed room. He knew it for his own solely because of the fragrance in the lamp oil and the brief glimpse of the lamplight reflecting on the platinum fire opal circlet marking him as _yadaj chadali_ and which he’d left on the marquetry shelf-table.

Gan claimed his lips with an odd wordless rumble - neither growl nor purr, but something in between that made him shiver. He forced his tongue into his mouth, still tasting of cloves and sweet citron despite many, many kisses already. He caressed and tempted - and as soon as he drew Link’s tongue up, he caught it in his teeth to suckle and tug and wind his tongue around in vulgar mimicry of another kind of kiss entirely.

Link whimpered, stroking a hand down Gan’s broad chest and the other down his neck.

Gan hummed in approval, releasing his captive only long enough to allow a breath and reclaim his hands to peel the caftan and jacket off his shoulders. He demanded Link’s tongue with his own, rumbling with amusement when Link stretched to obey.

It was a strange sensation, but Gan’s apparent pleasure in suckling at him that way was too nice to pull away from yet. It filled his head with visceral memories of filling Gan’s mouth so many nights on the punishing journey west, and made his skin tighten all over. Which made Gan’s sliding hands feel even _more_ intense.

Gan released him with a gasping breath and pressed his brow to his own, then nuzzled aside to tickle his ear with his long nose again and press his cheek tight, like a cat.

A lot of things Gan did, apart from his elegant words and his evident pleasure in the aesthetics of civilized life, reminded him of animals. His gestures and wordless noises and his music and the way he _moved_ in battle, and sometimes in bed. Hawks and wolves and horses and cats especially. More often when he was tired, or angry - and _always_ when he was soft. As if some part of his spirit also lived in the wild. 

As if some part of him was more comfortable among beasts than people.

Just like him.

“ _Esha’vo,_ ” Gan whispered in his ear.

Link shivered, writhing under the hand of his beloved king as he slipped down - and down - cupping the iliac crest and nestling in the valley of trunk and thigh, tempting, taunting, so close - and yet even in the moment of promise, _denying_ him. “Wicked king-!”

“Hn,” said Gan, smiling against his skin. “You want me _wicked_ tonight, yadaj’v? You want to be my captive, my caged wolf, my pleasure slave?”

Link bit his lip and squirmed in fretful uncertainty. He wasn’t sure how to imagine what Gan meant, and it was hard to think at all with Gan’s hand teasing him so. He still didn’t understand the strange pattern of conquest and possession Gan wanted when they began to dance in the grotto before the battle, and the thought of exchanging places struck a new chord of fear inside him. “Is - that what _you_ want, jacheli?”

“I _want_ to hear you _sing_ for me,” Gan sighed, pulling away to the right, releasing him in every sense. He rolled onto his side, leaning back against the wall, his golden eyes fixed on the bed between them, his hands idle. “You - don’t have to. I know you are unhappy here.”

Link sighed, levering up on his elbows and letting the enormous soft caftan fall. “Is that what they told you?”

Gan turned his gaze farther away. “You think I see so poorly I need a _spy_ to tell me?”

“That’s _not_ what I meant,” said Link, pushing to his knees so he could slip free of the too-warm silk jacket and claim Gan’s hand in both of his own. “I don’t belong to this place, and I _don’t_ know how to _be_ , and there is _so much_ I don’t understand. It’s not easy. But I want to try. As long as you will have me at your side, I will try to be - try to _become_ \- whatever it is you want. Give me time to learn how to be this _yadaj chadali_ . Let me learn how to - to _understand_ the patterns around my beloved king. Ok?”

Gan sighed. But he pressed Link’s hand in return. Ever so little. Hidden, even though there was no one left to hide from.

“Kiss me,” said Link softly, pulling Gan’s hand to his own lips to press his broad knuckles tenderly.

Gan drew a deep breath, nothing else.

Link kissed his hand again. Each knuckle. The back of his hand thrice, where in another life the Triforce would have marked and doomed him. Just below his wrist, then turning his hand over to kiss the tender flesh on the inside of his wrist. Which proved to be a mistake. Some fragrant oil there spread a bitterness on his lips that stung his tongue and made him splutter and recoil.

Gan snorted, amused by his distress. Because _of course_ he was. But - he _also_ summoned the cup of water from the window shelf, and brushed a fingertip down the side of his face as he tried to wash the taste away. “I will have to remember to save that one for under bangles with you around. Silly little wolf.”

Link stuck his tongue out and wrinkled his nose.

Gan laughed, eyes creasing. “Yes, we will forgive your charming tongue its folly. Come here for that kiss.”

“Nuh. Still bitter,” said Link, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

Gan beckoned him anyway, eyes narrowed in mischief.

Link sighed. He sipped more water and wiped his lips again before obeying.

Gan flicked his tongue out in the moment right before their lips met - and smeared honey on him. He chuckled when Link meeped in startlement, and rocked forward to kiss him in earnest. He snuck his tongue past his lips almost at once, drooling honey into him.

It was such a frivolous and strange way to use his magic - and yet startlingly erotic.

_What else does he summon like that?_

Gan plucked at the ribbons and jeweled clasps binding his chest wrap to the snake pectoral as they kissed. Despite his odd mood, it was an immense relief he sought touch again. It hurt so much when he pulled back into the old distance.

“ _Cup_ ,” gasped Link between kisses, desperate to have his hands free.

“Hn,” said Gan, nuzzling his face as he conjured the thing away to - wherever. It didn’t matter. “Confess your desires, little hero. Tell me what will summon songs to your sweet little tongue tonight, and it is yours.”

Link shivered, and contorted in an effort to reach the ties of the chest wrap. It was comfortable enough, if strange, but Gan clearly wanted it off. The moment he started tugging at it, Gan shifted his own position to help.

Of course, his _help_ came with further taunts that _helped_ his arousal stir again.

Link didn’t mind.

 _Maybe Nialet and Varesh do have precedence in my king’s heart and bed, but I’ve lured Gan into_ **_mine_ ** _now. Maybe if I am good, he will come to me again. Maybe I cannot ever be better than two welcoming oasis at once, but maybe I can find something he likes that they cannot give him. Maybe then I can still keep him sometimes._

Gan continued to press for words he didn’t have, but he wove his persuasion of such precious threads. His seductive rumble, his powerful hands, his burning tongue. He dragged Link close, drifting his kisses lower. He must have conjured the drawstring of the sirwal untied, for he pulled the cloth low enough to laugh about the new wrapped underwear the servants made. He called it _cute_ , but he also called it _annoying_.

“Why?” Link panted in confusion. He rather liked Gan’s hand sliding over the fine linen.

“It’s in my _way_ ,” grumbled Gan.

Link drew a tight breath. “Can - can you magic it like the cup-?”

“ _Of course_ ,” Gan scoffed with a little toss of his head. “I can conjure anything I want, any _where_ I want it. Don’t tempt me.”

“Mmmwhy not?”

Gan’s hand tightened on his hip. “If I _start_ conjuring things for bedding you - that is, more than just - a shortcut to something already near. Like the cup. Or the salve in the grotto.”

Link waited for him to continue.

Gan pulled his lip between his teeth and shook his head.

“Is it hard? Will it hurt? Will you get tired?”

“Hnnnot _necessarily_ ,” mumbled Gan, who never mumbled.

Link caressed his hair. “Then where is the danger, my love?”

“Don’t you ever need to put something _away_ from you to make it easier to _not_ use it?” Gan grumbled, pressing his brow against his hip.

“In battle, _often_. But we are not enemies anymore,” said Link gently.

Gan sighed. “You don’t understand what this is _like_ , wanting you. What have you _done_ to me, little hero? _I know better._ And I can’t - _I can’t._ ”

“How can I understand what you never tell me? _Try_ , and I will try. Ok? Let it be like the grotto, but the other way around. Tell me with your skin, and trust that I will say the word if I need to.”

“Eshla’v areldi,” moaned Gan, pressing a lingering kiss to his bared hip. “You have _no idea_ how dangerous that is.”

Link stroked his hair, frowning over the riddle of his troubled king. “What is _areldi?_ ” 

“The reason it’s dangerous to begin down that path,” mumbled Gan. 

_Something is deeply upsetting him. An hour ago he wanted sex where anyone might see us, and then he was speaking of cages, and then he was cold, and then he wanted kisses again - until he suddenly_ **_didn’t_ ** _. Why?_ “What happened? What’s wrong? Are you - mad about this afternoon? Are you mad I didn’t want green?”

Gan shook his head no. “I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to _think_ about it. I - I _want_ you to sing for me _and_ _drive it all out._ ”

“Will a veil help? Like the grotto?”

“I don’t know,” whispered Gan. 

_But he’s never uncertain._ “Kiss me.”

“It’s not _enough_ ,” whispered Gan.

“Fuck me then,” said Link, tightening his fist in Gan’s hair the way he sometimes liked when he wanted Link in his mouth. “You haven’t let me kiss you that way in _so long._ ”

“Hn, said Gan, hooking his fingers under the edge of the wrapped linen. “Beware the wicked wish, yadaj’v.”

“Mmm _no_ ,” teased Link.

His bones ached from keeping his fists tight in Gan’s short hair, and he could feel ten little seeds of the bruises he would wear on the backs of his thighs in the morning. He pressed his forehead to the cool plaster wall, gasping for breath as he shuddered in the aftermath of orgasm. He wanted to draw his hips back, he wanted to be sure Gan was ok.

Gan held him fast, still torturing him with shifting his tongue to coax more milk down his throat, still making him stand astride his lap.

It seemed beyond strange to pin his king to the wall and fuck into his mouth, but Gan had pulled him _so hard_ , demanding more, demanding him ever deeper and rougher. He would never have imagined the king of evil would want to make pretend that he was the one being taken so forcefully. It seemed upside down. He lusted for power - always. In every life. 

And yet. For the third time he asked Link to play captor.

 _At least this time he didn’t ask me to say mean things._ “Good, _oh_ , I’m gonna fall down if you don’t _stop_.”

Gan hummed in amusement - and finally, _finally_ let him go. He kept his eyes closed, slipping his hands down his thighs, as gentle as he was rough a moment before. He licked his lips when Link slid off his tongue. He didn’t speak.

“Unnf. Your mouth is _so good_ ,” Link moaned, stumbling to the side and dropping in a graceless sprawl beside his beloved. He struggled to master his breath again, glancing towards Gan. He was still fully dressed, but the drape of sirwal and kurta betrayed _just enough_ disturbance to whisper of the treasure beneath. “I wonna do that for you.”

“Maybe someday,” Gan rasped, eyes still closed. His kohl was a little blurry now, which seemed odd. At an estate, his cosmetics were always fresh and perfect, and he did something that _kept_ them perfect, even if he rubbed at his eyes or when he washed his face in the mornings.

“I wonna know what it’s _like,_ ” sighed Link.

“You’ve tasted the king’s milk plenty of times,” murmured Gan, still raspy, his lip curling in wry amusement.

“Not what I meant,” said Link, reaching over to lay a hand on his strong thigh. “Let me try? At least for a minute?”

Gan turned his head slowly, cracking his eyes open ever so little. Even his good left eye was unfocussed. “You would not be able to say-”

“I will hold your hand. If I let go for more than a beat - no, three beats. Ok?”

Gan licked his lips. One hand drifted to his lap. Not quite caressing himself - not even covering himself - just barely resting the side of his thumb against the gentle, subtly throbbing rise. “Promise.”

Link swallowed hard, excited and terrified. He held out his hand. “I swear it, jacheli.”

For a moment, Gan didn’t move at all. He didn’t even blink.

Lightning-quick, he seized his wrist and pulled him halfway into his lap. His other massive hand wound in his hair, and Gan dragged his face directly against his sex. The rich musk of his arousal soaked through his silk clothing, and his heat was intense as a desert noon.

“ _Beg for it_ ,” growled Gan, his voice rough. 

“Oh,” whispered Link in shock.

Gan pulled him tighter, rubbing his nose against the heat of his shaft. “I said _beg._ ”

“Let me kiss it,” stammered Link.

Gan let go of his wrist but kept his face pressed against his cock. He said nothing.

“Lemme kiss it please?”

Gan said nothing. He throbbed, and shifted his hips slightly. That was all.

“I _wonna_ kiss your cock?”

Gan snorted in derision.

Link kissed the silk, exhaling through the cloth as he kissed the side of his shaft again and again, everywhere Gan let him reach, drooling.

“Hn,” said Gan. “ _Pathetic._ ”

Link growled and tried to set his teeth on the thick ridge. _Wolf and mate?_

Gan grunted. 

_Not wrong, but not right either._ He couldn’t get a better angle with Gan’s fist in his hair, and licking the wet silk only make his tongue start to feel raw. “Lemme untie your pants an’ stuff so I can kiss you better?”

“ _Beg for it,_ ” growled Gan again, fierce and forbidding even though Link could feel him throb mightily when he’d spoken.

“ _Please_ , I wonna taste you so bad,” whined Link, clawing at his thighs. “If you won’t lemme kiss you there, lemme lick it?”

“Let you lick me _what?_ ”

“Let me lick your naked cock _please?_ ”

“Let you, _what?_ ” Gan rasped with deliberate care.

Link hummed in confusion.

“ _Beg me_ to use your wretched hide, _slave_.”

“ _Oh,_ ” breathed Link with a shiver. _You want me wicked tonight? You want to be my pleasure slave?_ “May I please kiss your cock _master?_ ”

“Hnnn,” said Gan, pulling the hem of his kurta up with his free hand.

Link scrambled to find the ties of his sirwal. It was awkward, and when his arm slipped on Gan’s thigh, his weight dropped enough that it pulled his hair. The pain was rather dull, and faded quickly, but it was startling, and he was ashamed of the fumbling. 

When he finally pulled the silk loose enough, he found no undergarment at all - which was completely impossible. He was absolutely certain there were more layers under his tongue a moment ago - Gan’s sirwal were even thinner than his own new jacket.

_He conjured them away - why? He said conjuring for bedgames was dangerous, but maybe this is one of those minor conveniences?_

He reached his tongue out - and Gan pulled back on his hair, yanking him away from his prize. Harsh. Rough. Cruel. Shaking him as he growled rebukes for overstepping his permissions and snarling another demand for begging.

And at the same time, laying his free hand over Link’s. Gently. Quietly.

_I will hold your hand._

Link caught his thumb around Gan’s, pressing tight as he stammered and begged.

Gan pressed back, once, then turned his hand to allow a better grasp.

Secret. Subtle.

And it made his heart stumble to feel the truth in his touch.

He was safe.

Anything Gan demanded, anything he did or wanted to do - he would stop.

Something shifted inside him, like finding the balance of a new sword. “ _Please_ master, fuck my mouth, _fuck me please_ , use me, use everything, make a mess of me, I want you _so bad._ ”

Gan groaned, low and resonant. He pushed Link’s head down, rocking his hips up, offering his regal cock to his lover, demanding his drooling slave pleasure him.

Link sucked the trembling jewel from his tip and stretched as wide as possible. Gan filled his mouth at once, pressing his taut and burning crown deep onto his tongue.

He groaned again, pushing, easing, pushing again, barely moving him at all. Not even a fraction of what he asked Link to do to him - and yet. His breathing became harsh and fast. He _liked_ this game. He liked Link begging him for pleasure, and begging to give pleasure, and he liked _taking_ even more than he liked being taken.

_Like any muscle, the jaw can ache, and the throat can spasm and close, the body might reject the offering. Some find that pain, or the risk of that pain, interesting from one side or the other._

_Did I hurt you?_

_Do you wish you had? There’s many kinds of pain, little hero. Not all of them are bad._

Link sucked him a little deeper on the next push, and the next after that. The pressure was intense, but it didn’t stay long. It was - rather like the satisfaction of splitting firewood in the cycle of strain and rest. The rewarding heat and fullness enticed him to try for ever more.

Gan moaned, tugging his hair down, keeping him in place long enough to rock his own hips three times. He panted harshly as he moved.

_He wants more. He wants the game to be real. He is excited by pain and risk and power. He craves all of those dangerous things he won’t tell me. He wants someone who wants him to do those things to them._

_I am strong._

_I am good at bearing pain._

_And I want to hear him moan_ **_even louder._ **

Something moved inside him. He pulled Gan’s cock deeper than ever, pressing his tongue in a new way, shifting the soft place at the back of his mouth. The ridge slid over his tongue and then - his jaw popped faintly. The thickness, the fullness that was _too much_ before was now just - _very much_ , and something - settled. Like coming to a rest position between sword patterns, and feeling the rightness of it in his body.

“ _Hahhhheey_ ,” said Gan.

Link pushed tentatively a tiny sliver deeper.

“ _Ohhnnn_ ,” said Gan.

Link pulled back, a little surprised Gan immediately tugged his hair _up_ , hard.

“Nnnnnn,” said Gan.

Link panted for breath, a little embarrassed by his drooling as Gan held him out of reach of his throbbing cock.

“Hahah - _hero,_ ” said Gan, breathless.

“Oh _master,_ don’t stop - shove my mouth on your cock again, _please_ , I need it, I want _more_ . I want to be _good_ for master, I need you to come inside and fill me _forever_.”

“Uhnnn _wretch_ ,” Gan groaned, pushing him down again. His other hand trembled as he did it.

Link clasped his hand tight, tighter, his heart racing as Gan pulled and pushed and used his mouth for his own pleasure. He couldn’t push himself any deeper than getting the ridge past that one spot on his tongue, but Gan barely even used half of that. It _couldn’t_ be enough, but he also couldn’t get his other hand into the right place to caress his shaft and help.

“ _Ah- sah-_ **_sah_ ** _,_ ” panted Gan.

Link hummed in approval, savoring the shiver in his core hearing his voice strain like that. Gan clutched his hand tight - he stuttered the beginnings of some word, then another. He pushed Link a little deeper.

Link sucked him back to the comfortable place he found before, pleased to find it was even better with Gan crying out and throbbing and… flooding him with heat and… trembling under him and… arching up into his mouth with a desperate gasp.

Gan froze there, trembling and throbbing, his voice harsh and broken, making no words at all.

 _Oh-!_ Link’s ears burned with shame. He was so wrapped up in trying to do _more_ , he almost missed noticing his beloved in ecstasy. He hoped Gan hadn’t noticed, and he waited patiently for him to be ready to let him move. His lungs started to hurt by the time Gan pulled him back, but that was fine. He was so wonderfully hot and slippery-smooth and twitchy as he slid off his tongue, pulling salt and sour with him, his flesh undeniably pleased.

“ _Hah-hayadaj_ ,” groaned Gan, untangling his fist and stroking his hair. “Ahtu, _ahtu_ yadaj. _Kesh_ ahtu.”

Link pressed his other hand tight, and leaned his cheek against Gan’s soft kurta and overheated middle. “Mmm. Ahtu jatheli rajena?”

“ _Hn,_ ” said Gan, and his voice smiled. “Ahtu ja _chel_ i’v.”

Link sprawled in lazy bliss on his lover’s chest. He was hard again, but he didn’t really want to move. He liked having his ear pressed tight over Gan’s heart, listening to the deep and steady passion that drove him.

He _really_ liked Gan’s strong arms around him. 

Gan didn’t seem to want to talk, but that was fine. As soon as the intensity of release subsided, he stripped his kurta off and stretched his massive body across the whole shelf-bed. He tugged his sirwal up, but didn’t bother securing it, and he pulled Link down on top of him even before he was finished shoving the cushions the way he wanted them. He tried to hide a wince of pain as he moved. Whatever else he did, he remained _proud_. 

_At least he wanted to stay._

Gan didn’t seem to be falling asleep either. The End was behind them, and he was finally free of the Blood Moon and Ganon and everything horrible that so easily might have become, free to do whatever he liked in the world, free of the pressing need to chase his purpose every waking moment. That he lingered in the quiet of the smallest hours of night in a humble warrior’s room when he could have been wrapped in luxury and pleasure and worship - it made his heart feel too full to bear.

His skin wanted more. No particular feeling or image rose stronger than any other, just a nebulous mash of every pattern of touch he knew, all at once. Including exactly what he already had. He wasn’t sure why his body refused to settle. Why he couldn’t quite stay in the now. Why the vague nudge of _tomorrow_ persisted when everything was supposed to be _over_.

“Gan-? Jacheli’v?”

“Hn?”

“Will we stay here long?”

Gan grunted quietly. “At least a few days.”

“Do you want to stay longer though? Is there somewhere else you have to be? Want to be? A fortress you like best? An estate _you_ lead? Or even in peace times do you always live in other people’s best rooms?”

Gan drew a measured breath, as if he needed to think about his words. “Link - I don’t know how long your tomb lay hidden, how or why the magic joined our threads across entire tapestries. Whatever your world was like - mine has never known _peace_ . Nor is the war _quite_ finished. Consider it like a spar, that our countries stand on opposite petals with our blades down, but not yet sheathed. No one has bowed, and no weaponsmaster has declared the fight over. Another lunge could come at any moment.”

Link shivered, his stomach clenching. “ _No_ . It is done. He is sealed. _We won._ ”

“There is more than one source of evil in the world, little hero. Mortals are perfectly capable of being wicked to one another and to the land and creatures without the help of gods or demons or spirits of any kind.”

“ _I will not allow it,_ ” Link growled, clutching him tight.

Gan drew a deep breath, shifting his grasp to pet his hair. He said nothing for a while. He dragged Link up his chest and kissed the top of his head. He tucked him under his sharp jaw - and just - _lay there_ . Saying nothing. Doing nothing. Denying him the comfort of his heartbeat, yet strengthening the embrace. “There is a relic I must find. Several relics. Lost to us ages ago. A thousand heroines have carried the weapons and armor of the Exalted Sun, but the Moon has remained hidden until you awakened, ja-jiradath. It is enough for the People that I have Named you yadaj chadali. _I am the Law_ , and _no one_ can demand further Trials of you or refuse your Name for lack of a bauble to prove anything - but _your valor,_ yadaj. The Pattern _shall be_ completed. I _will_ see the Moon’s Fist reflecting your grace, I _will_ see the Champion’s Axe restored, I _will_ see every blessed adamant scale recovered and reforged, every ring sewn, every jewel reset until all the world beholds the _wonder_ that manifests at my right hand.”

Link shivered, but only a little from fear. He felt like he should know the relics Gan spoke of, but he couldn’t fix a picture in his mind. No Geld’o artifact would fit a Hylian, and he was even shorter than most - _but Gan did say reforge._ “Not what I asked - but do you think this is a good place to stay while you look for these things? Can I help?”

“Maybe,” said Gan after a moment. “I know you are unh-”

“Stop,” Link groaned, clutching at his side between the sorrowful furrows of his lingering scars. “It doesn’t matter to me _where_ we are, ok? The house of Vah Nialet, a desert cave, a fortress, a palace, a hollow under a tree. As long as you - let me be close, I will learn to be ok. I will learn to be what you need. I _want_ to be what you need, jacheli.”

Gan drew a slow breath, the rest of his body very still. “This is - _one_ estate under the clever hands of loatta vaisa Nialet avadha Davayu of Agamedua. It may be that the People celebrate the confirmation of lifebond with loatta vaisa Varesh avadha Kharish in the coming seasons, but their Pattern needs no ceremony to be evident to anyone now that it is safe to lift the veils. I am - pleased to have arranged the early crossing of threads which gave rise to it.”

“You did more than that for them,” Link countered.

Gan sighed, and took his warm hands away. “Yes. Lulu, Severa and Takra are among the living ilmaha of my seed. And yes. I _have_ enjoyed personally attending their petitions over the last two - nearing three - years, whether a session called for tradition or magic or four hours of tea and cake and art. The veils are no longer _necessary_ , but they have asked to keep the pattern in a way they can - choose to still use it, if circumstance changes. Four days should be enough.”

Link wriggled down enough to fold his hands on Gan’s chest and prop his chin atop to look down at his beloved king, laying on a humble bed with his eyes closed and his hands empty and idle on his scarred hips. “I remember a handsome old king with many children. Wild and fearless, full of life and color, and how they loved you telling stories by the fire at night. I don’t have any shards where you had - or, when I _knew_ you had children young. You said there are festival tallies, so there must be petition tallies too. How many of them know _you?_ ”

“As few as possible,” murmured Gan. Cool. Objective. Distant. As if he hadn’t spent all afternoon and evening wrapped up in doting on the three babies and their mothers. 

_Three children he gave to important women, babies he never met, counted among his_ **_living_ ** _children._ Link shifted his left hand over Gan’s heart, and caressed his cheek with the other. “They are safe now, jatheli. I will help you keep them safe. I swear it.”

“Ja _chel_ i, little hero,” rumbled Gan, lips curving in wry humor. “I am not a cake.”

Link frowned. “You are teasing me. Cake is _shakrot_ . I _know_ this. _You_ taught me this, and the women in blue taught me also.”

“Mmm. Perhaps _that_ was the little joke, slipping erisfruit on the Hylian’s pretty pink tongue,” Gan rumbled, his closed eyes crinkling in mischief.

Link growled at him.

Gan’s lip quirked in amusement.

Link huffed in frustration, but he couldn’t be _angry_ . Seeing even so small a smile felt too good. “I _am_ serious, Gan.”

Gan cracked his eyes open, and his lips were so soft as he rumbled: “I know.”

Link shivered. “Not _fair_ when you do that _thing_ with your voice.”

Gan arched one brow.

“Nnf, _bite you,_ ” groaned Link, nipping at his chest in rebuke.

“Hn,” said Gan, pitching his voice even lower, taunting him with that troublesome rumble-purr. “My valorous little wolf likes a little _thunder_ in his bed, does he?”

“Little? _You?_ Pfah.” Link teased in return, licking salt from his skin. “Not even a _little fair_ . Not the Great Ganondorf, no. The king of bandits has to be so big he fills _everyth-oh_ that was _not_ what I meant to think about. _Unnf_ sorry, sorry.”

Gan laughed as he wriggled awkwardly in a vain attempt to shield his rude cock. “ _Interesting_ . Do tell us what sort of _filling_ my champion would growl at me for.”

“You’re doing that on purpose,” whined Link, trying to ignore the way his rumble-purr was making his ear and spine feel like plucked strings.

“Am I? Is it _so wicked_ to ask for your opinions of _big things_ when I am, as you say, so _very_ big? Does it give my champion trouble to consider things that might _fill_ and _be filled?_ Of _very big storms_ in very sweet and pretty little - _hn_ \- valleys?” Gan taunted him mercilessly, drawing out the words and making the tremulous sense of anxious tension wind ever tighter around his core.

“You said I was too small for that,” groaned Link, mashing his face against Gan’s chest and trying to persuade himself to roll off to the side where his arousal wouldn’t be _quite_ so rude.

“And what is _that?_ Hm? What a _puzzle_ you are tonight,” Gan teased with a click of his tongue, drawing one fingertip up his side, ticklish and tender. And still rumble-purring to torment him. “ _Whatever_ could my beautiful little champion be thinking of where merely _speaking_ to him arouses thoughts of _bigness_ and _filling_ that upset him so _thoroughly._ ”

“Not _upset_ . I _like_ being wrapped in your warm and strong and - maybe I like it _too much._ I do wish I could hug you better, and - some other things. Not upset. Wanting more.”

“More _what?_ ” Gan purred, drawing a little whorl on his shoulder.

“Nnnrrgffl,” groaned Link. “You know _what._ ”

“Some words would gain virtue in the speaking even if they were known,” purred Gan, drawing his fingertips down Link’s back to draw another whorl at the base of his spine.

“Are - are you putting magic on me?” Link whined. He shivered at the trail of ice in the wake of his touch, wrestling the temptation to bite again.

“Would you like me to?”

“What I would _like,_ ” Link grumbled. “Is for you to stop _teasing_ me into needing you so bad when it might be _weeks_ before you let me have you again.”

Gan drew a hissing breath, his wandering fingers halting their pattern. 

Link sighed. “Sorry. I _told_ you s’not fair to talk sexy like that.”

“ _Fair_ ,” said Gan, weirdly breathy and thin. “The little wolf... wants to... _have,_ does he?”

Link twisted to look up at him, but as always, his expression was closed and mysterious. “Promise you won’t get - mad, or weird, or - stop talking and go away again?”

Gan nodded. Once. Laid his broad hand flat across the small of his back. 

“I think about the grotto a lot. Especially the _soft_ part. When _you_ sang for me moving inside you,” Link confessed, unfolding his hands and letting his body rest against Gan’s again. “I worry about hurting you. That’s the _only_ reason I stopped you at the oasis after the battle, and if I’d known you would take away your touch for doing it I - would have tried harder to persuade you without the word.”

“I wasn’t trying to punish - I would _never,_ not for that, _ever,_ ” said Gan, vaguely raspy again. “After the word I - the next thread is yours. Always. Ok? You touched the edge of this or that pattern a little, now and again, but you - always stopped short of - where moving _with_ you wouldn’t pull you too far, too fast. Tonight I just - couldn’t - I _tried_ to - but your sorrow in the moonlight shattered already fragile discipline. I should have left you alone. I _knew_ I was too raw tonight - I _knew_ if I touched you I wasn’t going to be able to stop, and I thought - we could talk. It would be safe. You don’t know how quickly the winter nights can be far too cold. _I had to._ Your pain when you spoke of the children - it was too much. From that moment, all was lost. I _am_ wicked, but not - not the way you think.”

“Oh _Gan_ . I’m not smart. You have to _tell_ me what you mean, what you want, or I will never understand you,” whined Link, kissing his chest. 

Gan drew a sharp breath. Slid his hand slowly over the curve of his ass. “You are _certain_ you wish to hear my desire, yadaj?”

“ _Tell me,_ jacheli. What will bring songs to your tongue for me?” Link kissed his chest again, lingering close.

“Make love to me,” murmured Gan, cupping his ass in both his massive hands, warm and strong and tender. “Let me taste your bright spirit again.”

“What is there to _make_ when it already _is?_ Ganondorf Rajenaya Chalut Dragmire, my king - _Vo’jacheleth_ ,” said Link, kissing his skin over and over. 

Gan didn’t answer in words. His breath seemed to catch and his hands tightened.

So Link told him again. 

And again. 

In Geld’o, in Hylian, with lips and hands.

Gan remained quiet, reserved. His skin flooded with heat and his breath changed. His heartbeat doubled in pace, and he lifted a knee just enough that Link had to choose: astride or within.

Link chose the latter, slipping down to rest his knees on the bed between Gan’s strong, silk-veiled thighs. He asked with his hands for Gan to hold him, to keep _his_ hands on his ass, on his back and pin him between his knees. He begged with his lips for Gan to answer him, to _hear_ this time, and love him in return. He caressed scarred flesh and smooth, taut and yielding. He couldn’t help the urge to rock his hips at least a little - the deep ache in his root kept growing, especially when Gan’s hand tightened on his own skin, or when a tiny hint of sound slipped into his breath.

Gan’s thighs tightened around him when he stretched to kiss a little higher on his chest, seeking the compelling texture of his nipple, so different from women and fairies, yet somehow soothing and exciting in the same moment. Gan seemed to like being nibbled and sucked on everywhere, but he allowed so little approval to show at all it was hard to be sure.

He had to press his hips tight to manage the long licks and fit his mouth around the muscular rise properly, and feeling Gan’s hardness against his own made own core throb so hard he whimpered.

“ _Nnnyes_ ,” moaned Gan, so softly.

Link rocked his hips again, even though it ground his cock against still-damp silk and the taunt of summer heat beneath.

“ _Hah_ ,” breathed Gan so softly, hips rising and thighs flexing, ever so little.

“ _Yeah_ , that, more of that,” murmured Link onto his skin, grinding harder. “Esha’vo jacheli’v rajena.”

“Nnnff,” said Gan, grasping his ass and pressing him tight. 

Link glanced up at him as he shifted to kiss the other side, unsure how to feel about Gan biting his lip and tucking his chin almost to his shoulder on the left, hiding his good eye. He asked for song - and Gan held back. Even though he asked for touch, he held back.

“ _Sing_ ,” begged Link, dropping a hand low, seeking his throbbing heat. The wet silk shifted between them as he moved, and his fingertips brushed against the softest skin hiding the edge of the sirwal. 

Gan pulled a sharp breath through bared teeth, and again his hips rose.

“If I kiss your cock again will you _sing_ for me?”

“Nrrrf,” said Gan, his brow furrowing. Yet his hands tugged and his hips rocked ever so subtly, and his mighty throbbing made Link’s own so much worse.

 _Not wrong, but not right._ “Even if my hands are wet and wrapped all the way down? Milking you slow, so you can fuck up into my mouth the way you fuck your hands in secret?”

“Hnnn?” Gan cracked his eyes open, brows raised, his hands and hips still.

“I try _not_ to think about that one unless I can be alone for a while because I - kinda make a mess,” confessed Link, ears burning _again_.

Gan groaned, taking a hand away to scrub at his own face - as if he too was embarrassed. The Great Evil King, who fucked at least a dozen strangers in the middle of everyone through the longest night, brazen and arrogant. Embarrassed.

“What do you think about when you do it?” Link murmured, slipping his hand under the silk to touch more of him.

“ _Hnn_ many things,” mumbled Gan.

“Oasis?” Link kissed his nipple more gently.

“S-sometimes,” he murmured.

“Mouth? Other hands?” Link stroked down his burning shaft, two fingertips, all he could fit between them.

“Sometimes,” he whispered.

“Rose patterns?” Link pressed, letting his lips tickle across his taut nipple again, drawing his hand back up.

“ _Nnnmm_ s-sometimes,” he groaned, rumbly and low.

“If I kneel astride - would that make you sing, jacheli?”

Gan groaned again, dragging his hand down his face. “N-not tonight. Someday. Maybe.”

Link sighed, stroking him gently, laying his ear against his chest to better hear how the pattern of his breath stumbled sometimes. “ _Maybe._ ”

Gan hissed and groaned, wriggling his hips into the bed. He cupped his ass more gently, and with the other hand snapped his fingers, summoning a little brass pot rather like the tin he used for skin salve on the journey west. He set it on his own chest, where Link could see it, and with another sharp gesture, a new shape appeared in his hand. It caught the light and held it on ribbons of glittering color, mostly gold and green and blue. A slender sculpture, vaguely tapered on one side of his hand, flared into a flattened kind of globe at the other, with a faceted lotus caught inside. He turned it in the flickering lamplight, holding it so Link could see the mysterious, beautiful art in his fingers.

“I don’t understand why a pretty bauble is so dangerous,” said Link, maintaining the idle stroke, reaching for the elegant glass object with his other hand.

Gan let him have it, and caressed his hair several times before answering. “It is yours if you like it. It’s not _just_ pretty - it is - a way of being inside you. It is dangerous because - like the garden, once begun, stopping is _much_ harder, and because it can hurt very easily, and - because it is one step closer to - other things.”

“Oh,” breathed Link, struggling to imagine what the shape in his fingers would feel like inside his body. Wondering if it was enchanted somehow. Wondering how many steps divided the delicate bauble from Gan showing him the other side of the thorn-in-rose pattern.“I want to know what it’s like. Will you show me? Can I keep touching you?”

“ _Hnn,_ ” groaned Gan, closing his eyes and stroking his hand down his back. “Blessed stars _I want you._ ”

“Will you sing if I - would you like me inside you while you show me this pretty thing? Or would you like me kissing you better?”

“Hnnn,” said Gan, shifting his hips and flexing his thighs. “Yes, _yes_ hero, _I want_ . Star and sand I want everything. _Everything_ . All the patterns. Impossible. Can’t. Know better. Want anyway. All of it. All of _you_.”

Link hummed in thought, laying the glass down in the little hollow of his sternum, next to the brass pot. He levered upright to pull at the silk sirwal. “I know that in my skin too. If I could kiss you and be inside you at once - can you magic the pretty thing so I can feel you inside _while_ I kiss you?”

Gan grunted, clutching at his ass. “Watch it hero, or I’ll magic _this_ pretty thing.”

Link laughed as the thin garment in his hands vanished entirely, saving him the trouble of figuring out how to get the silk out from under his mountainous lover. The little brass pot twisted apart by magic, revealing a glistening cream, redolent of citron and herbs. “Looks soft - can I paint you with it?”

“ _Hnnn_ yeah,” said Gan, pulling his lip between his teeth. His cock throbbed dramatically, rising proud and strong and taut. Even knowing the feel of him in hand, on tongue, gazing at his _size_ remained a little frightening. His curve was much more subtle than Link’s, but that was the _only_ subtle thing about his thorn. His length brought his tip nearly to his navel if something made it bow when he was hungry for pleasure, and though his shaft swelled thickest from his middle to just under his crown, nowhere was he narrow enough to lock a single hand around without the divine mask to help. Only two branching veins stood out under his softest skin, and only when he was _incredibly_ hard, so hard his skin shone.

So hard that the precious clear honey dripped from his flushed tip.

Link couldn’t help it. He chased the sweet and savory little jewels at once, just in case the glistening cream would make his skin too bitter for kissing. 

Gan moaned - and lifted his knees, pulling his heavy thighs away, breaking the embrace. He flexed his strong hands, muttering something too blurry to understand.

 _He did that in the grotto too. Right before he touched me with the salve on his fingers._ Link reached for the brass pot, surprised to find the metal skin-warm and the cream much thinner and more slippery than the salve. Maybe because of the warmth - but rolling it between his fingers was different. Gan actually _gasped_ when Link rubbed it on his cock. He shivered when he reached the base, arching his hips up. Wordlessly demanding he paint the salve lower, lower, all around the soft, secret throb of his yielding rose.

“ _Haahhh_ don’ _stop_ ,” groaned Gan, rocking against his fingers. _Onto_ his fingers. Link pressed back - just a little - and Gan _moved_ , drawing him in to the knuckle with a low moan.

“ _Gods_ , that - that makes me so hard it _hurts_ ,” whimpered Link. “I wonna be _inside_ . So _hot_ \- I want it - can I?”

“Yadaj, _yadaj_ ,” moaned Gan, tipping his head back, every tendon in his neck standing out, his chest heaving.

 _I hope that means yes._ Link smeared more cream on his aching cock, and scrambled after the puzzle of how to make his limbs be in the right place to bring their bodies together without Gan’s clever hands guiding him like he did before. It was hard to hold any thought at all, and his whole face burned with embarrassment for the noises he couldn’t help every time his overheated cock brushed against _anything_.

Gan didn’t seem to mind. He spread his hands across Link’s back, trembling strangely.

Fitting his tip down into the heat stole away every other thought. Each throb pulled him deeper. Hot. Burning. Close. Pressing. Throbbing. Pulling. Dizzy. Maybe it wasn’t Gan trembling, but him. The chu-sting shiver coursed through his bones, and his root spasmed. He tried to babble an apology, but it was too late. Once again, Gan’s body pulled him over the edge almost at once. 

And Gan demanded more.

Link bowed over his beloved king, bracing his hands on his chest, where he seemed to have taken fewer wounds. He _wanted_ to hold his hips, he wanted to touch Gan _everywhere_ , but he couldn’t _think_. Not thinking meant mistakes. “Don’wonna hurt you.”

“ _Won’t_ ,” groaned Gan, dragging his broad hands down to the small of his back, pressing his strong fingers into his flesh, pushing him down again, and again.

Link obeyed.

Gan moaned as he thrust slowly deeper.

“Good-? Ahtu-?” Link gasped as he rocked back.

Gan swore.

Link thrust again, dizzy and electric-taut, sliding into slick and hot and baffling, maddening pulses of glory.

Gan panted and moaned and pulled him deeper, refusing to let him draw back, grinding into him with an agonizingly wonderful low rumble. His throbbing cock pressed hard against Link’s middle, dripping and burning and _completely_ unfair. Especially with the little glass lotus sculpture catching the light, threatening to roll off his chest.

“Want it,” whispered Link.

“Nnn?” Gan raised his head to blink at him blearily, stilling hips and hands.

Link rolled his hips, staring hard at the shining bauble, struggling to make his tongue shape words. Struggling to hold himself up. Struggling to endure the intensity of everything. “Wonna _know._ ”

“ _Oh,_ ” panted Gan, licking his lips, heaving another breath, biting his lip. He pulled his hands away - but that was fine. He was moving the brass pot and the glass thing and wrapping a hand around the back of his neck to pull him down, making him rest his weight on top of him. Making him press his face against his salty skin. He was rocking his hips again. He was touching and holding and he was hot and slippery and hard and so, so strong.

The world burned away. 

He couldn’t think. He could barely breathe.

Everything was too hot and slick and tight for thinking, for breathing. It was even better than the shards of wallowing in pink bliss because Gan was moaning and babbling under him. The fairies laughed and smiled and it was like falling into music.

Moving inside his king was the thrill of a fight and the rush of a reckless waterfall dive and the anxious vertigo of being fall-down drunk and the bliss of dappled summer sunlight and the sensual contentment of a feast, drinking in the visceral rumble of ecstatic thunder.

Making love to his beloved king was embracing the winding, sheltering roots of a thorny spicebean, safe from the harsh winds of the desert highlands.


	25. Gentleness - 10 of ?

Apricot nectar sweetened the sultry afternoon breeze. Merciless golden sunlight pierced the oiled spicewood lattice and scattered reflections off the lacquered table and the dish of ink. Most of the people seemed to find the dappled light and scented wind through the lattices a calm and soothing thing, but any tiny shift on either side made the light and shadow _move_. 

The war was over and won, but peace remained elusive for him.

Especially on the ground floors, where the densely planted gardens flourished, and the avadha bustled about on a hundred different tasks. Even within the relatively quiet corner of the estate where the scholars work, the world of the Geld’o was always in motion.

Eiju has promised many times that when he masters that virtue, the rest will come more easily. That his stiff and untidy calligraphy will _finally_ improve, that the patterns of the morning stretches will make sense, that his words will begin to sort themselves out, even if his accent remains abysmal forever. She said from motion he will grow knowledge, or else endurance, depending on whether he cultivates more of gentleness or of spirit. 

Link tried to drag his attention back to the incomprehensible poetry she asked him to copy while she labored over yesterday’s parchment. She obeyed the command of her king without complaint, but she could not hide her frequent winces of pain as she painted over errors in his graphite-slurry ink with intense beetroot red. With her elegant brush she layered proper forms directly over crooked ones, and threaded correct spellings between the lines of his errors. His lines wavered and slanted in drunken furrows, even after two months of study. His Hylian letters were even worse, but Eiju decided weeks ago to give him a respite from the attempt while she conferred with some other distant scholar on the particular challenges of instructing a left-handed pupil in the rigid Hylian alphabet.

Gan was not pleased that she stopped the lessons in reading and speaking modern Hylian until he was ready to resume writing lessons in the same. He grumbled frequently when they met at dinner that his Champion should not be obliged to master a foreign tongue before his own, that Eiju’s instruction was backwards from beginning to end. He did not agree that Link’s intense tutoring should begin with _motion_ at all, but with _skill_ , as he and all of his most respected Rocs and advisors had done. Nialet defended Eiju’s decisions, even when her king growled irritably and issued ominous threats of discipline.

Nialet never wavered.

Eiju remained sovereign within the confines of the scholar’s court.

Occasionally, she was merciful in her lessons: the model she chose that morning was not handwritten in courtly, artistic script, but block-printed text that stiffened the natural curved grace of their language and divided one letter from another. It was a little easier to read printed Geld’o texts. That did not make the words easier to _understand_. Eiju said the passage about the creation of this unnamed stone person in an unfinished shrine, and the discovery and awakening of them centuries later is deeply significant to the golden people, and he may find the larger context interesting when he is finished with copying.

_Eiju is wrong._

The poetry did not make any more sense for staring at it longer, nor did he develop any new and magical appreciation of a _purpose_ to copying it in his childish, uneven letters. _No one_ could want to look on his work - but at least he wasn’t wasting anything but time and ink. Varesh had quietly advised him that when he _did_ finally master the art, his early work would be scoured and returned to the storerooms for teaching tomorrow’s ilmaha the same lessons he struggled with at the command of his beloved, moody, and often _absent_ king.

Link decided to take even more time copying it than usual. Unlike other lessons, calligraphy was not governed by the hour-glass, but by the page. It began when he was clean and fed after morning drills, and finished when it was finished. Discussion of the literature and the history and the place the story came from _must_ wait until after. He seriously considered spilling the ink accidentally on purpose so that he would _have_ to start afresh, enabling him to stretch the work into the hour just before the hottest part of afternoon, when everywhere about the estate the People tied off the loose ends of their tasks and Eiju would tie fast the morning and afternoon poetics lessons with mathematics. 

Math was weird, but refreshingly simple, weaving lines and boxes and numbers to get different numbers on the other side. He didn’t see any point to that either, but at least it was tidy, and scribing _numbers_ cleanly was easier than scribing poetry. Eiju said Hylians taught numbers in a different, and presumably inferior fashion, but he couldn’t remember anything of learning it in any life. Gan said that meant he either hadn’t needed it much, or he had a natural talent that wanted only opportunity and refinement. He said Geld’o education was designed to train every student to a basic competence in _every_ art, and only then hone talent and interest into mastery. He said it was important that he begin at the beginning in every subject, even in the physical disciplines that he had long since mastered in other lives. 

Gan insisted he train as if he knew nothing at all, of anything, ever, and submit to every whim of his masters.

And then he left. 

First it was for a single day, riding to inspect some grove or field with Nialet, returning just as the evening meal was laid out.

In the next week it was closing himself in the highest rooms in the central tower of the estate, and seeing no one for three entire days. Nor did he actually emerge on the fourth day either, but retreated to the state rooms to stuff himself on cake and sleep. Link only knew of _that_ because Varesh told him. She didn’t know what work he might have been doing, but agreed it was probably magic.

He began holding regular petition audiences after that.

People began to travel from other villages and estates to be heard. The warriors and servants had begun to wager which palace he would choose for the spring, and how much longer before he left for it. His presence brought them renown and tribute, but it also brought _work_.

Link was forced to be grateful to meet his beloved for the evening meal, to ride beside him perhaps two hours in a week, to capture a brief glance in a garden, to steal a kiss in shadows or moonlight, to lure his king to his bed in the few restless hours before dawn when he was not already dancing in someone else’s.

Ink splattered from his brush, rebuking him for his wandering attention and impatient movement. Link swore.

Eiju looked up from correcting yesterday’s work and _sighed_.

Link tossed the brush down on the ruined page and bowed to rest his face in his hands. He was tired of spending every day in futile and pointless pursuit of skills that _six-year-old ilmaha_ had already mastered and whose purpose largely remained a mystery. 

“That is your fourth wasted page in one day. You may ruin a _hundred_ and you will not persuade me you are clumsy, yadaj, nor will I disobey the command of my king simply because you delight in sabotage,” she snapped, her Geld’o careful and crisp to assure his understanding.

“He does _not_ spill for purpose,” said Link to the darkness in his hands. He heard her groan of frustration, and _knew_ he’d said it wrong, but Nialet had warned him his tongue would never dance if he refused to first stumble. She said the longer he allowed his listening to run ahead of his speaking, the harder it would be to ever catch it. 

“Yeah? And you are playing with your bracelets and making calf-eyes at the window because you are overexcited by the lyrical elegance of Strato Eolian,” she countered, washing and hanging her brush with automatic precision. 

“This one _not-!_ Wanting _finished_ , for truth.”

“Lie,” she returned crisply. “Who desires to obey does not question the purpose of the order. Who desires the well digs with discipline and integrity. It is the desire of the Great Ganondorf that yadaj chadali be taught as all children of the sands are taught. Eiju avadha Streka obeys, whether yadaj is happy to learn or not.”

Link sighed, and gave up trying to make himself understood in his patchwork Geld’o. As he did almost every day. _Endurance will certainly not come first. I should warn Beytu she will lose her bet with Risa._ “I _do_ want to learn, but I am not smart. I will never be like him. I am only a warrior - yadaj means a hero, and I can do that. I can run and ride and hit things-”

“So you prove every morning and night,” she agrees with a shake of her head, folding her arms and leaning back in her chair. “No one is so good they cannot still be better. In the sword courts you _know_ this is true. Why do you refuse it _here,_ yadaj?”

“I don’t! I _know_ I am bad at _all_ of this! I can barely read my _own_ language, and Vah Nialet-”

“L’vaisa.”

“ _Laveysa_ Nialet says I must have poetry and history and maps and building things and counting things before she will explain anything about paths or patterns or law or manners and nevermind what _is_ yadaj chadali? He says this, and everyone nods and says _ah yes, it is so_ , and that is the end of it. For _you._ ”

“Ghed vo’Ganondorf-”

“That, right there. I can say one thing of himself, and everything is fine. Then I say something else, and you salute him even when he is nowhere to hear it,” cries Link, gesturing helplessly. “I do not understand, I _cannot_ understand, and _none_ of you will tell me how it is you know how to _be_ , what _I_ am supposed to be. How does poetry help me guard my king? Do I distract an assassin with riddles?”

“Not all shields are steel and wood,” said Eiju. She shook her head and glanced toward the hourglass. “This _once_ , you may set aside the text. Tomorrow you will focus on your study and copy _both_ cleanly if I have to petition my king to ride to Risoka and back to achieve it.”

Link bent to the work of cleaning away the stack of parchments, cheeks burning in embarrassment. He still struggled to understand desert manners, but he was almost certain Eiju’s allusions were both rude, and _meant_ to sting as a personal insult. 

_Among the Geld’o taking lovers is a personal matter of no one’s concern but those directly involved._

_Except the whole estate sees me sit at your right hand. And at least four avadha here not only_ **_know_ ** _that I both fight beside you and embrace you, but are very extremely concerned with that very fact._

_To settle into a life-bond and establish a new household and family with a woman, permission to leave or join the House is to be sought from the elder mothers, or from her commander._

_How are bonds settled with a man?_ **_Can_ ** _they be settled_ **_between_ ** _men?_

 _I am King. I do not require the approval of anyone to do exactly as I please, with anyone I please, whensoever it pleases me to do it_.

“The war is over. Necessity is not enough anymore. I do not please you because I am stupid in the desert ways,” he muttered under his breath as he ground fresh graphite and stirred another tiny spoonful of gummy water into the shallow stone dish. _The problem is - I am not getting any less stupid._

“Complaining to your ink does not improve its virtue,” Eiju chided, bringing over a new book, bound in purple leather with bright brass bands and locks.

Link sighed, settling back onto the cushioned bench. He tried to shove distraction aside - math was orderly, _and_ governed by the hourglass. After rearranging numbers, they would have tea and dense little nut cakes, and then it would be the hour of madness. Gan would be busy with petitions, everyone else would be resting, and _he_ would practice tidy stitches with bright silk threads and crisp white linen, while Eiju read to him of an art considered to belong to inward spiraling disciplines.

Even Gan quietly agreed with that part of Nialet’s design: it was for the best if his early lessons in aesthetics and manners happened when they were least likely to be overheard.

 _Which probably means they have something to do with the moon, because I am supposed to already_ **_be_ ** _chadali._

But the pages Eiju weighted open in the purple book did not offer the comfort of tidy ranks of numbers to practice arranging. There were _letters_ on the page. Not even half of them were words, but letters _interrupting_ the numbers.

“They will not be solved by scowling at them, yadaj.”

Link stared at the baffling puzzles and shapes. He shook his head and laid his brush down on the clay stand. “They will not be solved at all.”

Eiju swore, rolling her shoulders. “Yadaj. _Attend_. This is no different in nature than the work you have done. Look on the expression here, and calculate that which is missing.”

“How do you add **_b_ **?” Link spluttered.

“For one, you don’t, because the line of balance _still_ means division, just as it did yesterday.”

“No, it means nothing,” snapped Link. “Can I go to a merchant asking five rupee for bread and say _I do not have a blue rupee, but I will give you two green and write the letter L for you?_ No, because letters are worthless figments that only mean something when everyone makes pretend they mean the same thing, which they _don’t._ ”

“Yadaj-” began Eiju.

“ _No_ ,” shouted Link, shoving the table away and tumbling off the bench.

Eiju shouted after him as he pushed through the beaded linen door-curtains.

Link ran faster, arrowing across the scholars’ court toward the apricot garden and the shortest path to the stables. _Not even a Gerudo warrior can outrun a horse._

Link did not even manage to cross half the north courts. 

In the middle of the regimented yew garden, he realized too late the shadow at a turn in the path was not in fact a shadow at all. He failed to catch Varesh, he failed to catch himself, and they both collected bruises and half a pot of chiba soaking them for his folly. Pottery shards littered the path, and the tin box of fig-and-nut cakes spilled, and the brass box of flat bread, and when he tried to get to his knees to help the poor woman up, he found the remains of the jar of clarified butter with his right hand.

He howled at the blazing afternoon sky.

Varesh cringed away from him, babbling apologies in a mash of Hylian and Geld’o.

Link gestured desperately for her to stop, to be silent, but it was too late. Other Kharish and a few Ramal were pouring into the garden. All possibility of escape died in that moment, and hope of making himself understood with it. No one would believe _the champion_ could have caused the accident. He was too good at fighting for anyone to accept that he tripped over an innocent because he was too busy running away from his shame to manage his path.

Varesh offered him a clean cloth from the mysterious depths of her blue mantle, begging his forgiveness.

“His fault,” he growled, shaking butter and broken glass from his hand. He couldn’t wipe it on his pants either - the Ramal had sewn them for him. He couldn’t ruin their art for his own clumsiness. “She brings these gift and kindness to him, and he is _stupid_. Laveysa Varesh is good, is correct, all waste his fault. He takes these, there is no trouble?”

“ _No_ , honored yadaj cannot be eating _dirty scraps_ ,” she said in horror.

“He eats worse,” he said with a shrug, taking the offered square of linen to heap the dusty bread and cakes on.

A gasp and titter of horror from their growing audience echoed her cry of denial.

Their shock was too much, too sharp on the rawness of yet another reminder of how poorly suited he was to serve as _any_ kind of companion to a _king_ . “He is yadaj? In the green lands yadaj is _not_ shining. He is sleeping in dirt, he is eating wheat fell in dirt, meat fell in dirt. He is running, he is fighting, he is blood and dying. _Ghed’rajena_ is of pretty golden, yadaj is of _dirt stupid_. He takes these from dirt, Laveysa takes no trouble for fallen.”

“Those days are over, yadaj chadali. The Great Ganondorf steals you from green Hyrule for the glory of the People, and we _will_ be keeping you,” said Nialet, pushing through the little crowd. She wore neither her bright mantle nor the snake jewels, but simple, striped celadon sirwal and wide bandeau. Her hands were smudged and dirty, her hair pulled up into a pair of inverted plaits and wound in a dense knot atop her head as the Saiev wore the traditional horsetail. She switched to crisp Hylian, despite her usual opinions. “There will be neither waste nor trouble _if_ you surrender the tending of all of that to the Ramal, and _both of you_ come with me. _Now._ ”

Varesh sighed, submitting humbly, and there was nothing for it but to follow her example.

Link swore when he realized Nialet was herding them both back to the scholars’ court. He pivoted at the dividing arch, but she silenced his objections before he could even properly begin. Two hundred days awake in this life, with possibly thousands of lives on the other side of that mystery, and an impossible victory securing the hope of renewed peace - and he surrendered before the disapproving grumble of a _farmer_.

Eiju held her tongue.

Varesh held her tongue.

 _Nialet_ held her tongue.

Four of them sat around the lacquered table in the middle of the open study room at the front of Eiju’s little province of the archives, and drank tea in silence. 

Shame burned his ears, and spices burned his tongue. He swore softly and set the tea aside, folding his hands in his lap and resisting the temptation to fidget with the loose enameled gold snake bracelets. One of the artisans had fashioned a little extension chain so he could wrap them around his wrists twice instead of wedging them up above his elbow or risking them sliding off. He swore under his breath, but the shape of the profanity didn’t make his tongue feel any less stupid and clumsy and sour.

“Our ways are different than yours,” began Nialet in crisp Hylian, cradling her celadon cup in both hands.

“I _know_ , laveysa. He asks of you an impossible thing and - I will petition him, I guess. I am too stupid to learn anything outside the sword courts.”

“ _L’vaisa_ ,” corrected Eiju in a tone of long suffering.

“I have some familiarity with Hylian customs. Among you it is considered that the point _is_ the lesson. Even in archery, the student is told: hit such a mark, and to do it you stand thus and so. Some with talent will grasp in their skin how to use these ends to achieve their target,” said Nialet, turning her green-gold eyes toward him. “Among us, we teach ilmaha how a good arrow is made and why. How the bow is made and why. When they are old enough for a shortbow, we give them pebble-shot and simple targets. Their bodies already know the stance from dawn-greeting, their hands already know steadiness from calligraphy. The bow and arrow, the wind and sun become the teachers. We give them the tools to create the skill, and we help them hone it when they are ready, but _we_ understand as Hyrule does not that the seed _must_ come before the harvest.”

“ _I_ never learned to make arrows and I can hit _anything_ I can see,” he grumbled.

“The gods gave your body the sketch of the pattern - what your people call _talent_ \- and necessity honed it just enough to keep you alive. Even so, learning now the things your education skipped will make you an even _better_ archer than before, and teach you how to pass the skills on to another. Talents cannot be taught or given. Reliance on the gifts the gods and ancestors presented when you awakened is the path of the _fool_ , and even should you seek all your life you will _never_ possess that which you desire,” she countered, stern and cold. 

Link scowled at his hands. “You don’t understand.”

“I understand perfectly. In the green lands of the East, it is held that the soul can encompass but _one_ art. They would hold it self-evident that your talent and experience in war is the whole of your virtue, and they are not wrong to honor those skills you _have_ built. Yet even untrained it is evident to anyone that you possess the rough sketch of others, and both the raw potential and dauntless will to develop still more. Hyrule’s negligence becomes our wealth,” she said with a wry grin.

“No, laveysa, please. You are kind, but _they_ are right. I am stupid in these things - two months and I still cannot even _copy_ words right, and _now_ you ask me to make numbers out of letters? I _cannot_ , and even if I could, there is no _point_. These are puzzles for scholars and sovereigns, not warriors.”

“ _Yadaj_ , attend, please. I have told you _every day_ ,” groaned Eiju to the ceiling. “Solving simple expressions for the missing number is the first step on the path from primitive stone-counting to understanding the _use_ of numbers.”

“Why do you have to make a puzzle of simple things? _The one and only use of numbers is counting_ ,” he cried in frustration. “Five rupees, spend two, you have three. Ten sheep and one ram makes twenty sheep and a ram next year.”

“She is not so good with Hylian, but even this Kharish knows the world is not being simple in this way,” said Varesh softly. “Five amali may have _ten_ , or none. Three rams, or none. More lambs make for poor wool, more ewes make for less meat, more rams for less milk. To lay this in the hands of the gods alone is death. By patterns of numbers, gift of Nayru, we guide the pattern of the flock.”

“By Nayru’s gifts we _calculate_ the grain and field and water, expressed _thus_ ,” added Eiju, gesturing to the purple book.

“Farore’s gifts would rot in the fields without Nayru’s wisdom in preparing the storerooms, and would not grow at all without Din’s passion driving the work,” said Nialet. 

“Yes, I know, the mysterious Great Patterns that he talks about all the damn time. I _know_ they connect and balance. Isn’t that enough? Knowing that they do? What difference does it make if a _fighter_ knows _why?_ That’s what you have a _King_ and _Voices_ for,” he countered, gesturing helplessly.

Nialet sipped her tea and her greengold eyes narrowed in thought.

“Mathematics drive more patterns than these. When you can solve for missing pieces, you may know the height of a tree by measuring its shadow alone,” said Eiju.

“ _Why_ do I need to know that? Anyways the _good_ lumber isn’t the whole height. You have to fell it and trim and cure it or even measuring cords are a waste of time.”

“For this too, patterns in the change,” said Varesh softly.

“ _Perhaps_ you need to strike something hidden in the tree, or assure your arrow flies over it to strike the other side, and you have neither time nor quiver for false shots. Or _perhaps_ yadaj does not raise a bow at all, but set a _ballista_ ,” said Nialet. “Aim the latter as you would the former and you will waste the shot and bolt both.”

“You said I wouldn’t be leading the army! Anyways, ballista are _war machines_ . The war is over, and it will _stay_ over.”

“Perhaps,” said Nialet, setting aside her cup.

“I _said_ it is _over._ We _won._ ”

“Speaking the word makes not for truth,” said Varesh, shaking her head. “If the fire goes out, it needs not watched, yeah? Yadaj stays, _to make sure_.”

Link had no answer for that. She was right, and the terrible weight of that truth tied a knot in his throat. 

“It _is_ the place of the king to tend the Great Patterns,” said Nialet after a long moment. “They understand nothing who think he tends them alone. Even a Great King is mortal, his reach and strength and wisdom finite. He too learned once the tying of fletchings and shaping of bows, though he is not Dhana, nor could he be one of even middling rank. Still he must _know_ it, he must _practice_ it, to understand the Voice of the Dhana and weave her threads in the Great Pattern. The Exalted Sun is without match in the Sword Courts, but she could not walk the Pattern of Dhana either. Still she must know it, must practice it, to understand and to balance the Voice of Dhana, and the pattern of the world as it _is_ , and the desire of the Sun’s Ray to _reshape_ that Pattern.”

“Ghed vo’Ganondorf, he does not _need_ to know measuring of grain to water in a cooking pot which fills a hundred bowls without waste,” said Varesh, toying with her cup. Her soft cheeks darkened with embarrassment - she seemed so shy, it was hard to imagine her ever being bold enough to petition her formidable king in the first place, and let alone for children. “It is the place of Kharish, knowing this, and the correct pot for wheat and rice and barley. How long it may be kept, how much will be lost, how much the lost may be recovered for other purpose. How big the keeping-pot can be, before the center rots. How many pots may stand close in how large of space, and the storeroom remain cool and clean. How much to store as beer, as cake. Which and how many storerooms to seal, and which for rotation.”

“It is the place of Davayu to fill those storerooms, and also the land. She cannot give her bounty who does not have it to begin, and she cannot keep it who has not the means to take care of it,” added Nialet. “One who does not know this pattern cannot think to _ask._ ”

“Beware the eighth wind, for where move a thousand light horse and a thousand heavy, and a hundred thousand bright warriors of lance and sword with everything to carry them a thousand leagues, the cost _begins_ at one thousand golden rupee _per day,_ ” said Eiju, in the cadence she always used for recitation.

“I’ve never seen much rupee in the desert,” Link hazarded.

“Nor will you - outside of these books,” said Nialet. She nodded to the ranks of scrolls and tomes at the back of the room, away from the window. “Among us, rupee are more a way of measuring things and balancing the scales than a thing in themselves. We may have twenty bushels of bloodlimes, and Hakoum would trade three bushels of twisthorn locks and forty bottles of ansu’raj, and a hundredweight of prepared ochre. The value is agreed, and the balance is leveled with rupee. Where the tribes argue, Council and King settle the worth, and that word becomes a guiding star to measure by.”

“He has to learn the pattern of growing and cooking to know the value of food,” said Link, chilled by the vastness of it all. Even in shards of memory, he’d always known Gan was smart. Considering the mountain of things he _had_ to know to settle one question of _one_ trade - and nevermind to raise and feed an army - made him dizzy.

“Just so,” agreed Varesh, leaning in with a conspiratorial tone. “Or - _who_ to be asking _what_ question.”

“Voice of the Stars,” murmured Link, turning to Nialet.

She nodded, a slight and stoic gesture, revealing nothing of her feelings about her position in life. “The pattern of yadaj chadali has not been danced in centuries, and though it compliments the pattern of the Exalted Sun, and shares in the patterns of Voices, it is not the same. _The moon spirals in_ , yadaj. It is what it is, and you are what you are. The true cry of the spirit can be accepted or refused, honored or insulted, but it cannot be _changed_.”

Link frowned in thought, trying desperately to fit the fragments together in a sensible shape. He glanced at Varesh and gestured to the purple book. “ _You_ learned all of these?”

She nodded.

“ _And_ the poetry?”

“She also dances the flower again when Severa is a _little_ older,” said Varesh, fidgeting with the folds of her mantle. “Not _well,_ but good for balance.”

“It is the desire of the Great Ganondorf that yadaj chadali be taught as _all_ children of the sands are taught,” said Nialet, and something in her quiet presence and confident tone stitched together a little more of his patchwork understanding. She was a leader among her people, not because of high birth, but because the gods gave her a sketch of that pattern, which education and training strengthened and honed, and which her king sharpened further by placing her where _her_ pattern would move in harmony with the Great Pattern under his own hand.

“ _Inward_ ,” said Link, frowning at the writing brush, considering the knots of a hundred senseless lessons. “If this math of letters guides ballista moving outward, if the stories of the past guide the movement of legions, and moving in circuit as a star these calculations and histories guide the balance of wool and grain and everything - what do they guide _inward-?_ What does the moon _do?_ ”

Eiju and Nialet exchanged a speaking look, and said nothing.

“The moon reflects glories of sun,” murmured Varesh, her soft features flushed with embarrassment. “She commands tides of body, she transforms herself and all in her care, she restores and guides and shelters. She is change. She is time.”

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” rasped Link. The mask. The ocarina. The design of the tomb. _Yadaj Chadali_ must be the closest pattern in his culture to everything Link already was.

“Perhaps the moon’s path is learned best alongside one who travels it,” said Nialet, calmly refreshing her tea.

“No! She can barely - Hylian too poor - not a warrior,” cried Varesh, stumbling in Hylian and Geld’o both.

“Himself won’t like to lose her hands in the kitchen,” said Eiju with a doubtful expression. “ _Maybe_ during the hour of madness.”

“Are you growing so fond of your rebellious student you will keep him to yourself alone?” Nialet countered.

Eiju swore.

Nialet finished her tea, apparently ignoring the pleading of her lover and all her professions of being ill suited to the task.

“Please - stop, all of you. I don’t want anyone else to suffer for me,” blurted Link. “He knows better than anyone how he desires yadaj to also be chadali, let us ask him when he is free after the petitions.”

Nialet grinned. “Let’s ask him _now_.”

Link struggled with his dread as he followed Nialet across the estate. Varesh and Eiju trailed after him, talking too quietly for him to have any hope of following the Geld’o. He knew Gan was busy with petitions this afternoon - most of the coming week, in fact. He’d listened to a few of the audiences, and he knew _some_ petitions were small things, mundane things. He just couldn’t quite figure out how to grapple with strangers offering skeins of bright silk threads and boxes of cookies to their king and asking him to fuck them or make them pregnant or both.

Gan’s laughter and the giggling of women spiced the afternoon breeze as they wove through yet another garden. The warmth of it made him feel like he was being crushed by a deadhand. He tried to brace himself to see his beloved pleasing strangers. His ears burned.

“L’vaisa, aieko - aiko,” cried a woman, laughing. She babbled something about trees.

Link forced himself to look up from the paving stones as they ended abruptly under the arch. The whole enormous courtyard was planted with a carpet of dense grasses clipped no taller than his hand was broad. The walls were tinted in a soft blur from pale red-brown at the ground to bright azure at the top, where shards of broken rupees and mirrored glass had been set into the smooth stucco. Red and gold flametrees stood a spear-length in from the walls all around the courtyard, pruned to make tidy arches between the fat trunks.

Children tumbled and chattered and ran everywhere under the dappled shade and drifting blossoms. Some tossed balls of bright yarn. Some dragged wheeled horse toys behind them, and some skipped through colored hoops on the ground. A few older children sat against the trunks of the trees with small stringed instruments. Younger ones sprawled and stacked bright blocks or rolled wheeled wooden toys over the patterned cloth at the center of the courtyard.

Women sat or stood or followed the children, their veils set aside though it was the hottest part of the day. Everyone was talking in a confusing babble all at once, though no one was really _loud_. Even Ganondorf rumbled low as he lifted a child in his vast hands, twirling them high in the air, tossing them and bringing them down again. Another child ran up to him immediately, and he laughed, teasing them with a fingertip to their brow first. When they sighed and pouted and stomped their foot on the grass, he lifted them upside down, taking them through the same pattern backwards. They shrieked in delight, and two more children rushed to his side before he had even set the other back on their feet.

Link leaned heavily against the nearest flametree, fighting to master his breath. He did not fare so well against his tears, and he burned with shame that Varesh clicked her tongue in censure and made him submit to her scrubbing his cheeks with a corner of her soft mantle. She stood with him, and watched the Great King use his strength and grace to amuse dozens of children, aiding their leaps and twirls and whirling them through the air to play at flying.

He was dressed simply in a black linen kurta and black silk sirwal, barefoot, with few jewels, his short hair tousled, and a strange horn-like ornament of rich jade encircling his topaz spirit gem. He laughed and he smiled, and no one in the world existed for him but this pack of children milling about his feet and demanding attention from _raj_.

No ceremony.

No honors.

Nialet spoke with one of the strangers halfway across the court, probably the one who called out before. The woman had a fullness of body that suggested she might be with child, but it was hard to tell in the scattered light, unless she would turn like the woman at her other side, who was definitely, absolutely, _heavily_ pregnant.

“He said there were _petitions_ ,” Link stammered at last.

Varesh giggled at him. “Ilmaha cannot petition. But _amali_ can. And now - who is to look, and make trouble that the Sun’s Ray pours his power into _this?_ ”

Link sighed.

Varesh patted his shoulder indulgently.

“It’s a nice garden,” he said, after another knot of children ran past them, apparently racing one another on a weaving path around the trees. “I didn’t see anything like this at the other estates. A pleasure garden. How did I miss it before?”

“There are many gardens under the hand of l’vaisa Nialet. This one she labored hard to revive for him. It is his wish that when the lanterns tell of his end, that he is not taken to any temple or hall of kings. He swore every sparrow to this: his bones to be purified in Din’s flame and sealed in Nayru’s skysteel, and laid here, in the lap of Farore. No stone, nor marker, no treasure to adorn him, his Name unsung.”

“He doesn’t - the _Great Ganondorf_ does not want to be remembered?” Link shook his head at her, as baffled by her words as by the sight of the man himself engaged in truly idle amusement.

“No - you know there is sword court, yew garden, scholar court, fig garden. Ask any ilmaha where you stand. Go on,” she shooed him into the artful grove.

Ganondorf noticed him, and his brilliant grin faltered. He lowered the current child to his shoulder, hushing their complaint - no doubt for a game ended early. “You have great honor today, child - see? There walks a great hero, bright as the winter moon.”

Whatever they said, their tone and doubtful look said enough: he did not look like a hero.

“Hn,” said Gan, bowing to set the child on their feet. He tugged smooth their sand-colored kurta with it’s cheerful blue flowers stamped all over. “Let not your eye deceive your spirit. Go, play a game with the others while I speak with our hero.”

The child _harrumphed_ and stomped away, provoking some of the others to laugh and chase them. One of the older children stumbled into him as they tried to catch a bright yarn ball. They apologized and bowed several times, clearly embarrassed to accept the toy from him.

Link remembered Varesh’s order.

The answer made his heart twist again. _Dorviru’raj._ Dwelling-place of hope, and also dwelling-place of the king. A final puzzle whose answer would be scoured away within a generation of his death.

“You are supposed to be studying,” rumbled Gan.

“I am,” he agreed, and also argued.

Gan offered a sardonic grin. “Seems a bit early in your studies for the classification of ornamental foliage.”

“They want me to divide numbers by a letter,” grumbled Link. 

“Hn. Delightful subject, bone-setting. A threading of warp to support a hundred thousand patterns - and how do you find it?”

“I do not find it at all. They said nothing of bones or thread, but say it’s something to do with ballista.”

“They’re right,” he said. “There are none here - Heimarr is a bit far for something that heavy. Karusa might have one, or - yes, I can use it as a middle point,” mused Gan, folding his arms over his broad chest. The posture revealed the looseness of the garment - he’d lost a lot of his bulk in the hard push west and the slow return from it. “Two days, and I shall bring you one.”

“I’m pretty sure that wasn’t their point,” said Link with a sigh, distracted by the rising pitch of babble among the women. They looked flustered over something but he couldn’t make out their words at all.

“Maybe it is mine,” said Gan with a wry grin. “You will enjoy it. They’re powerful little machines, and the cable strikes the wind as nothing else does.”

Link sighed, scuffing his toe in the grass. “I’d _rather_ we never need them again.”

“ _Need_ is a strong word,” he scoffed, glancing around the courtyard with a slight frown. His finger twitched almost as if he was counting. “Do you expect me to believe you do _not_ find satisfaction in the physical arts beyond their utility?”

“That _wasn’t_ what I- _blessed Light_ **_no!_ **” Link charged past his king, scrambling through knots of gawking children. Everything was moving too quickly. He was too slow. He had no weapon to strike the stone inside him.

Women screamed.

The child fell.

Arms outstretched. Long kurta billowing in the wind.

Perfect diving form for a waterfall or a deep oasis - or flying in the hands of their king.

Light flashed.

Gold.

The child flew as a swooping Roc, so close over the other children their hands knocked more than one horsetail askew. They banked hard around the little courtyard, wrapped in golden light, light trailing from their fingertips. Tighter and tighter they spiraled, and when their king plucked them out of the air, they crowed with laughter.

Link fell to his knees.

Women were swearing. Some of the older children also.

Gan laughed.

He didn’t scold them at all. He tossed them in the air and caught them again, and spoke of wind. He said something about open skies and drops and speed. He smiled and laughed, and ruffled the child’s hair when at last he set them on the ground again. He beckoned toward Varesh, and knelt beside the blissfully ignorant youngling. 

Varesh stumbled as she obeyed her king, her features ashen.

“Takra,” breathed Link in abject horror. He should have noticed their golden eyes, should have recognized the shade of blue ornamenting their sand-colored clothes, should have marked the blue and silver ribbons in their hair. Varesh’s first child, too young for much understanding, old enough to be dangerously swift, and evidently fearless.

His own child fell within a few scant hands of disaster, and Gan _laughed_.

Link bowed in the grass, and was sick.

The healers fussed, as healers always did.

There was nothing wrong with him that any potion could treat. He felt wretched for wasting their time. Surely Varesh needed their skills more. She had come so wretchedly close to misery - but he saw nothing of anyone until dinner. Evening lessons were cancelled for him, and he was confined to one of the tiny rooms off the healer’s court, in dark and quiet and solitude. The shattered moment and everything that almost became kept circling through his head. He felt like a bombflower in a sunbeam, on the edge of exploding any moment. 

Risa, the lead healer, escorted him to the central building herself, and ordered her orange cushion moved beside him, where she could observe him through dinner and assure that he took no alcohol. Not even mjir. Not even small cider.

The black cushion at the center of the landing lay empty, the silk smooth and untouched.

Nialet and Varesh sat with Takra between them. The child did not look at all pleased to be there, for they usually nibbled at their dinner and ran about with the other ilmaha. Lulu kept stealing food from her mother’s hands, as did Severa. 

Neither of them seemed inclined to talk.

Link couldn’t blame them.

He also couldn’t eat, no matter how Risa nagged him.

The rest of the room seemed about the same as usual. In the second hour a few women brought out their instruments, and some of the older children danced. Everything was normal and fine, avadha laughed and talked as they always did.

Three women in striped white and blue came to carry the little ones upstairs to the children’s halls - unless under a healer’s care, ilmaha slept above the fourth floor in one of the buildings with granite foundation and granite under the stucco of the outer walls. 

The meal plodded on for a third excruciating hour as they all picked at the remnants of their meal, and still not the smallest sign of their king. If he’d left the estate or retreated to his rooms, the Ramal would have cleared everything by now. As it was, they began to sweep through the lower floor, clearing as much as they could. A few women left, but most lingered in conversation or little games of hazards or music.

“ _Aieko yadaj,_ ” snapped Ganondorf from somewhere behind him.

Link spilled his water in his startlement. Neither sound nor shadow had warned him at all. He scrambled to wipe his hands and rise, but Gan was turning away, repeating his order in Hylian - with a contemptuous _now_. “Wait - what’s going on?”

“Do not question my word,” snapped Gan, striding across the landing toward the hall that opened onto a terrace and walk connecting it to another building. “Attend me. I have a task for you, hero.”

“I can see that - Gan, where have you been? Slow down, you are _tall,_ remember?” Link trotted after him, frustrated and baffled.

“I am aware. The height is not ideal but - here,” Gan shoved something small and hard into his hands and gestured out over the garden. “Jump.”

Link stared at him, but the shadows hid too much.

“Are your ears full of sand? _Jump_ I said. I have potions, _go._ ”

“Jump. Off the terrace.” Link repeated, baffled.

“Did I stutter?” Gan snapped, his good left eye catching the light.

“Why?”

“After - awareness often alters the effect of the spell.”

“Gan, this is - a forty-foot drop. Even I can’t roll through that without-”

“Thirty-five at most. Leave the numbers to me. You are a creature of action, _act._ ”

Link glared up at the looming shadows of his mad king- and brought his heel down on the man’s bare toes.

Gan yelped in shock and pain.

Link seized a fistful of his kurta and yanked him further off balance, dragging him toward the nearest pool of lanternlight. “Explain.”

“You stubborn little _shit_ ,” snarled Gan.

“Following orders _o_ _rajena’v,_ ” countered Link, pulling him into the puddle of amber-gold. “What is this bespelled rock and _where_ have you been all evening?”

“Making the _rock,_ ” snarled Gan, seizing his wrist and forcing him to let go of the cloth or risk a fracture. His hair was no longer tousled but now truly wild, and his good eye was pinned despite the darkness. He had dust and oil and unidentifiable sticky something smeared on his face, his shirt, his hands. “You will not twist this around - you will obey your king. Go - _jump_ you little fool.”

Link frowned at him. He held the little faceted rock up to the light. It didn’t seem like much, just a little quartz point, but when he turned it, a feather seemed to flicker in and out of sight within it. “A new spell?”

“ _Of course_ it’s a new spell, you idiot! Do you think I waste my time testing patterns I’ve woven a hundred million times before-?”

“You are filthy. You have tested this already,” said Link, lowering the little stone.

“Don’t be stupid. Stop wasting time,” snapped Gan. He seized Link’s wrist and started dragging him toward the terrace again.

“Answer me, jacheli. Are you filthy because you’ve been testing this spellstone?”

“Not all magic is _tidy_ , little hero. Come,” he demanded.

“Why do we have to do it now? Everyone’s been waiting for you to come to dinner.”

“They can damn well wait.”

“Answer me. Why now? Why not in an hour? Or three? Or tomorrow?”

“Have you lost all your wits in your winecup? _One minute_ of delay perfecting it could be too late, you idiot, you imbecile, you-”

“Takra,” said Link.

“Shut up,” snapped Gan, shoving him out onto the terrace.

“You need me to do it because you can’t be _sure_ your magic isn’t helping, don’t you?”

“ _Just do it._ ”

Link rolled the stone in his palm. “No.”

“You will obey-!”

“I will not,” said Link, lifting his chin. He threw the stone out into the garden. 

Gan swore.

“You will come inside. You will drink water. You will eat. If it is only bread, so be it, but you will eat. You can come willingly, or I can use the stone to force you. You know I can, and you know I will. Dismiss my strength at your peril, jacheli’v.”

Gan roared at him, wordless, beastly, enraged beyond reason.

Link folded his arms. “A warrior’s body is one pillar of their strength. As a garden in the desert must be brought shade and water and food, so a warrior must tend their strength. You can only harvest from it what you have nurtured. You may be the law in many things, but _this_ law binds all mortals, even sorcerers and kings.”

“ _No,_ ” shouted Gan.

“You have three more seconds,” said Link, though he wasn’t at all sure how he would activate the stone. 

“What use is three _pathetic_ seconds? A leap from the damned Ancestor’s Table is _twelve_ ,” cried Gan, his hands spread wide.

“It didn’t happen, jacheli. You caught them in time. Everything is ok.” Link closed the distance between them and wrapped both of his hands around Gan’s right.

“It’s _not,_ ” he rasped. He didn’t pull away, but he was shaking.

“You shouldn’t have closed yourself up alone, but it will be ok now. Come. Sit with us. Drink some water.”

“You don’t understand,” he said, his voice harsh and raw as Link made him turn, and walk back inside with him.

“Better than you think. I have known _many_ almosts, and even more _too lates_. But you are not alone, Gan. You do not have to carry this stone in the secret dark,” he said, striving to remain calm and soothing and perfectly confident, as if guiding a spooked horse over dangerous ground. Time enough later for reason, for making him understand the limits - and hazards - of his well-intentioned magic. 

Gan sighed mightily. He groaned. He scrubbed his free hand over his face. He rolled his shoulders back and assembled a brittle mask of his usual aloof confidence.

Nialet and Varesh both glanced up as he led Gan to his cushion and remained at his right hand as he sat stiffly upon it. He gestured for silence when Gan wasn’t looking, and he remained standing as some blue-garbed Ramal brought water and sweet bread to her filthy king.

Gan did not eat much. He did drink three cups of water. He did accept Varesh’s hand on his knee. He did touch her shoulder. He did not speak, but he urged her close, to kneel on the rug and lean against his left side, his arm wrapped around her.

Risa said something to the Ramal, and when the woman returned with a lidded jar of some kind, she took it away and put it in Gan’s hand herself.

“I do not need _dhosha,_ ” he scoffed.

“Your healer disagrees, and so do I,” Link countered, though he hadn’t the slightest idea what it might be.

“I do not need a healer either,” grumbled Gan, glaring at the little jar.

“Yadaj chadali disagrees, and so do I,” snapped Risa, folding her arms.

Gan grumbled, and swore, and drank whatever sharp smelling brew he’d been given.

Nialet rose gracefully, waving away the others’ curiosity. She paused beside Link on her way down the hall to the next stair. “The cry of the spirit cannot be _taught_ , yadaj chadali. It is what you _are_ , when all else is scoured away.”


	26. Gentleness - 11 of ?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is sensible wordcount? I certainly have no idea. Obviously.
> 
> Have some angst and smut and scenery porn my dear readers, as a treat.

The hour of madness stretched beyond the turn of the hourglass, longer with every passing day. It was too hot even in the shade, even in the serenity of the  _ dorviru’raj _ , even for the ever-restless Takra. Of all Gan’s children at the Davayu estate, Beytu avadha Saiev said  _ they _ took after their sire most. She apparently held some authority on the matter: the old woman had been captain of the palace guard when he was born, and for decades when she was not leading raids into Salari or visiting family in Agamedua, organized the guarding of those spoils against mischief.

In which occupation the future king apparently excelled.

He honed his magic in his childhood stealing sugared fruits and preserves from sealed pots behind locked doors, and weaving illusions to disguise himself and his thieving. He snuck into corrals and stables to feed treats to his favorites and steal them away for illicit midnight rides.

Which skills he used now to visit his champion in secret and be ridden in turn.

Link hauled on the supple black reins solely to make his king moan. Gan tossed his head the little his harness allowed, and the hidden bells in the elaborate horsehair headdress chimed merrily. The iron rings he’d set in the wall at the head of the sleeping platform creaked and groaned as he pulled against it. Other nights, the game of struggle was amusing, but they were both sweaty from a late sparring match before dinner and now their midnight hedonism. It was Ganondorf’s idea to save bathing for after, and Link humored him as usual. Now, his tugging at the rope moved his whole body forward just enough to interrupt Link’s rhythm, and all his bedlinens would need washing from their mutual filth.

Under the sweat and musk and spicewood oils and spilled seed, Link could still smell the woman on him. Or women. Once again Gan had come to him after tending some petition, and once again he wore the sweetness of a woman’s flood on his rich olive skin.

No matter how hard he tried to please his king, Link remained a last choice.

He harnessed his anger to fuel his thrusts - he’d long since spilled his second, but even with the gilded cockring cinching him tight and a delicate lotus bulb tucked into his own ass, he doubted he could achieve a third. Gan wanted to be filled to overflowing, he wanted to be rutted hard, struck and bitten, he wanted to cum with Link inside him until he begged for mercy.

He could not speak with the leather strap in his teeth, but he promised he would be able to spit it out even with Link’s fist in the reins, that the design of the double bit was specifically conceived to allow that. He swore this was what he wanted. He’d come through shadows dressed in nothing but the black leather and roached horsehair headdress, studded and beringged black leather harness, and a little black silk scarf looped through gilded rings that just barely contained his sex and left his muscled ass bare, except where the bright flowing tail hanging from the hip belt veiled him. 

It was altogether an odd fashion, playing at being a red-maned stallion. Gan wanted to be fucked wearing all of it, down to the fringed handwraps and strange fringed and hooved shoes that increased his already ridiculous height. Link persuaded him out of only the scarf, out of concern for chafing - and his own need to see clear evidence of Gan’s desire.

Link snatched another candied stamella wafer from the dish on the shelf beside him, tucking it under his tongue with a curse. Six portions already, and Gan did not cum. He stroked Gan’s sweaty back, tidying the bright tail aside. He snatched the leather-tipped goad from the sheath belted to Gan’s thigh, and brought it down across his lover’s back, his ass, his thighs. Each bought a little grunt - of pleasure or pain he could not guess. 

He wondered if the Kharish had opinions about the champion’s taste for stamella. Varesh always made sure he had a full bottle each of stamella and hearttruffle, and  _ she _ knew the king came to his bed. Everyone probably  _ knew _ , but it wasn’t done to speak of it.

Sometimes Link enjoyed their shared secret. Sometimes he felt special that Gan trusted him with his desire for dangerous bedgames. Sometimes he bound a sash over his eyes when he pleasured himself so he could imagine Gan coming through the shadows to watch him, especially when he lay sprawled over a cushion, teasing his rose with one of the three glass lotus-bulbs. He longed to feel silky hot flesh in place of cold indifferent glass. Howsoever pretty the baubles, they weren’t Gan.

And they weren’t even  _ close _ to his size.

Gan insisted the tiny gradations between the baubles was necessary and good, that he needed to train cautiously and carefully, that the rose was delicate and unforgiving.

And then he demanded  _ this _ .

Link felt his staff softening. He grimaced and cursed, bowing and twisting to see if Gan had spilled on the blankets and he just - missed it somehow. No telltale shimmer caught the gentle lamplight.  _ Damnit. I must be doing something wrong. Maybe it’s my wandering thoughts - maybe I’m not hard enough to please him anymore. Gan is big. Gan is strong. It’s fine. He can endure this because he’s practiced a lot. I am still training. Maybe in the fall - and maybe if I can take the first and second together he will see I am ready for the fourth size. _

Link leaned into his strokes, meditating on the daydream of trading places as he fucked into Gan’s wonderfully hot ass. He fumbled the goad, dropping it in his distraction. He spread his hand wide, bracing his palm against a patch of bare skin just above the broad studded hip-belt. A deep ridge of scar tissue rose under his thumb and his fingers. He fretted that touching it hurt - but Gan whimpered. Link pressed more of his weight into his hand, and Gan whimpered again.

Link loosened his grip on the reins so he could mirror the pressure on the other side of his spine. He tested a little more with every few strokes, until he was holding nearly his entire weight on Gan’s back and thrusting down into him. At last, the proud king moaned for him, drooling around the leather bit.

The bedlinens were soaked with sweat. Even so, seed would streak and puddle - and Link would surely scent the distinctive musk. 

“Oh Gan, jacheli,  _ please _ ,” Link groaned, slowing his stroke and trying to concentrate on his position. Long and deep, pulling  _ almost _ to the gate and sliding back again. “Tell me what you need, tell me how you want it, tell me what will make you sing.”

Gan moaned.

“Please, I need to know, I  _ need _ it. I can’t give you a third without it,” Link begged.

Gan moaned louder.

“Yes, sing, sing, and tell me what will bring you pleasure my king. Tell me, tell me, and  _ cum _ for me. I want to feel your throbbing inside - tell me where the spot is tonight,” Link begged pitifully.

“ _ Hnnah, _ ” he said around the leather strap as Link bowed over him and thrust deep. His breaths were already short and ragged and damp. It was so very hard to read his mood at the best of times.

_ I am not going to let him wear a gag again if I can’t take it away. _

“ _ Hnnah, _ ” Gan said again, also most of the way into a deep thrust.

Link paused there, drawing back and rolling his hips to grind his crown in the depths.

“ _ Hnnah, _ ” Gan cried again, and again, every other roll.

It began to hurt, straining every muscle to hold himself up and to control his hips so closely. He could not remember ever striving like that in other lives. He could not take another stamella wafer without shifting his weight, and his weight seemed to have something to do with the chord of pleasure he’d finally found.

_ Bright blessed goddesses, let this finally be the spot. Let this be the right way to please him. Let me feel his root tighten and pulse and let me hear him howl when he cums. _

Link babbled pleas to his king and to the gods, one after another, struggling with a sudden wave of intensity building in himself. Hearing Gan’s deep voice changed something inside his skin, challenging his willpower more than ever.

“ _ Nnghaaaahhh-! _ ” Ganondorf roared, twitching and shuddering under him.

Link slowed and stilled, straining every sense to savor the throbbing. He panted for wind, holding out as long as possible before peering around his massive lover in hopes of seeing his victory spilling over damp linen.

Nothing.

Link moaned in agony, and let himself collapse over Gan’s back in defeat. He knew he shouldn’t. He despaired of disappointing his fierce king. Sentimental embraces were exactly the opposite of what he came looking for.

“ _ Hnn yadaj _ ,” groaned Gan, finally proving that he could remove the leather bit in spite of the reins fastened to it. “Faithful little hero - you are too good at that.”

Link sighed. “Not good enough.”

“Hush. Hold on mkay? I gotta move the - merciful Din, I need to redesign these,” he groaned as he shifted and let go of the rope, twisting and wriggling under him to adjust some part of his harness. “Just a little moment, and you can finish, I just - need to get this sheath - goddamnit.  _ Definitely _ a poor design.”

Link frowned, wrapping his hands around leather straps for balance as Gan fussed and wriggled, planting his face into a pillow and reaching under himself with both hands. “If you could be  _ patient _ I can pull out and-”

“No need, no,  _ you _ feel fine, it’s this damnable  _ thing _ , blegh. Maybe the rigid one was better after all,” he grumbled, muffled by the pillow.

“What is a sheath?”

Gan snorted in wry amusement. “I’ll show you after. Ok, that - should do. Until bath. Yeah. Let me get braced for you again.”

“I don’t need another,” said Link softly, kissing his sweaty back.

“Ah,  _ fuck _ , ruined it for you,” Gan grumbled, shifting to set his forearms against the bed under his shoulders.

“You didn’t ruin anything. It always feels good to be inside you,” Link murmured, confused by his quicksilver moods.

“Flatterer,” Gan grumped.

“I mean it. Yeah, I was  _ close _ to a third inside, but when I found your note this morning I - well there was a reason I was late to dawn stretches. And I wasn’t exactly  _ resting _ at the hour of madness either,” confessed Link.

Gan chuckled darkly, turning his head just enough for the lamplight to reflect from his good eye. “My lusty little hero. Watch it, or I’ll lock that pretty little cock out of your reach and see how long it is until you start humping the furniture. Ready for that bath?”

“Desperately,” Link confessed.

Gan snorted. “Will you come to my suite, or prefer the oasis again?”

“Is she still in your bed?”

“She?”

“I’m not that stupid.”

Gan sighed, sinking his weight deeper into the bed. “Probably, but the bath is on the other side of the-”

“Oasis,” said Link.

Gan sighed again. “Very well. Gather anything you need.”

Link sighed in turn and kissed his back, bracing himself to withdraw.

He still cried out shamefully when he tugged his cock free of Gan’s tightening rose. He sank back on his heels, waiting for the world to stop spinning. He watched cum and oil ooze from Gan’s throbbing ass - and Gan  _ let _ him watch, raising up on his knees with his strong thighs parted wide so he could see Gan’s heavy cock still twitching too.

And dripping.

Veiled in creamy cum.

“Hey-! You used magic to cum in  _ secret?  _ That’s not fair,” Link whined.

Gan chuckled, twisting to look back at him with that wicked grin. He looked particularly savage with the roached crest falling over his brow and the straps of the headdress and the gilded side-rings of the bridle all still in place. “No magic. Testing a new sheath to preserve the milk for later enchantments - and keep  _ you _ from stopping early.”

“Jerk,” grumped Link. “How many?”

Gan licked his lips. “Lost count.”

“Liar.”

“Jealous?”

“Maybe a little,” Link confessed, cheeks burning.

Gan laughed. He flexed his ass and thighs, showing off with absolute malice, making the prickling blush spread like wildfire under his skin. He laughed again, and twisted to lounge on the bed with deliberately seductive elegance. He beckoned.

Link sighed, obediently crawling close and draping himself over Gan’s chest with his face tucked against Gan’s neck.

Gan tapped his hip in mild rebuke, reminding him to spread his knees.

Link pulled his lip between his teeth and firmly told his skin to relax. It was  _ hard _ . Knowing what would come next, knowing he would cry out, knowing the lightning would crawl up his spine, knowing Gan would hum in approval only if he  _ didn’t _ tighten just made him more anxious. He wanted so badly to be good, to make Gan happy, and that very desire made it almost impossible to do the very thing that would prove he was strong enough to please his king.

Gan caressed his ass and teased his root. He nudged Link closer, encouraging him to press his cock between their bodies. He kissed Link’s shoulder.

Link shivered.

“Hn,” said Gan, ghosting his hand over his ass again to tease the faceted flare of the lotus bulb. He summoned a drizzle of oil over his fingertips, massaging it through the cleft as he always did. He slathered so much it dripped - and he ignored Link’s petulant whine. He would do as he pleased, and nothing would ever persuade him to do otherwise.

Link whimpered when Gan finally grasped the lotus in his broad fingers and twisted it. The third bauble had a subtle spiral to its flare and taper, which usually felt like nothing much, but when Gan turned it counter to the twist in the glass, it made his ears tickle.

Gan laughed at him.

Link buried his face against Gan’s neck in shame.

Gan did not let him escape so easily, but toyed with the little glass tool, twisting and tugging it, making it shift ever so subtly inside him. When at last he seemed like he would pull it out, he paused with its widest part caught in the vestibule - then pushed it back in.

Link gasped.

Gan hummed.

And did it again. And again.

Link whimpered, tightening his hips against Gan’s broad chest as his stupid cock throbbed in fruitless want.

Gan hummed.

And fucked him with the little lotus bulb until the flare moved smoothly through each thrust, even when he pulled it all the way out and delved back in again. The easier it moved, the less he felt of it, and he yearned for more.

Soon enough, yearning became begging, no doubt exactly as Gan wanted it. Link howled his need, desperate to feel full again. He ground shamelessly against his lover’s chest, seeking the formless more his skin cried for.

Gan pulled the bauble out a little longer, and when he brought it against him again it felt cooler. Smoother. Almost soothing as he plunged it in. It didn’t seem to press as wide anymore, but stirred something deeper. It was good, but it still wasn’t enough.

Gan took it away entirely for three agonizingly long beats - and then he was massaging his broad fingers around the rose and Link forgave his cruelty at once. He was so warm and strong, and when he delved inside he  _ definitely _ used more than one finger this time. 

Link strained to discern any further detail in vain. He squirmed and whimpered and rutted back against Gan’s hand, too dizzy to think properly.

Gan laughed - and he did  _ something _ inside that made his whole body spasm.

So of course he did it again.

Link begged for mercy.

Gan took his time.

When the climax came to him it was sudden and shocking and struck like a hammer in his blind spot. He was pretty sure he howled, and somewhere in the madness he sunk his teeth into beloved flesh hard enough to leave a mark when he finally came back to his senses.

Gan held him while he shuddered and babbled apologies for making a mess on his chest. He said nothing until Link finally leashed his tongue again and let his weight go slack. “Ahtu.”

Link hummed in exhausted pleasure. One little word, one rare and precious word from beloved lips, and at last, he could rest. 

“Ahtu jacheli,” he said softly, every syllable a secret prayer that one day, Gan would say it back.

“Hnn,” said Gan, in the tone he used when he was as close to content as he ever seemed to be. He stroked his clean hand over Link’s shoulder. He did not correct his pronunciation this time. “Oasis?”

“Yeah,” said Link, kissing his neck again.

Bright amberwood slipped in his fingers, spoiling the note. Isha stopped her playing to sigh at him. Link stammered apologies and laid the cittern across his lap to rub his sweaty hands on his sirwal. 

“This is why you should wear the gloves yadaj,” Varesh urged him gently. 

“I am too clumsy with them,” he sighed.

“You wear splinted leather and steel for drills and archery,” Isha countered.

“That’s hardly a fair comparison,” Link grumbled, picking up the cittern again. “I only have to move my fingers a little for the ocarina. Also, all the songs I know for it are  _ simple _ .”

Isha sighed, casting a  _ look _ at Varesh.

“There is still time to practice it on the horn or flute, and I can sing the poem while you play,” Varesh offered shyly, shifting on her cushion and fidgeting with the folds of her voluminous blue sirwal. She wore soft, slouchy knit gaiters to match her loose fingerless gloves, fastening the cuff of her sirwal just below the knee to make it blouse even more generously. She claimed the fabric was loose and airy, more comfortable for her than bare skin, but Link felt even more sweaty just  _ looking _ at her in so much fabric. 

He kept his own patterned bandeau for precisely two reasons:  _ everyone _ stared if he went without it anywhere but the baths, oasis, and  _ maybe _ the sword court on a grappling day. He would have resolved to ignore the scandalized looks and disapproval if his first truly warm morning attempting it hadn’t delivered its own rebuke in the form of burning his skin so thoroughly he had to beg salve from Risa avadha Akash just to tolerate a  _ breeze _ touching his nipples and nevermind clothing.

Gan had, of course, laughed at him.

“No, I want to do it  _ right _ . He actually said he  _ likes _ the cittern and komuz and the bellow-pipes, and I am less good at the other two. I don’t know his opinion of horns and flutes. There is little enough I can give a great king who has  _ everything _ the moment he wishes for it,” Link said firmly, setting his fingers on the neck of the instrument in mirror of Isha. She was spare and wiry like him, and wore her hair shorter than most other women, just barely enough to pull into a high queue and secure with jeweled combs. She said long hair got in the way of her music, both in the moment and in stealing time from practice. She was less patient with his clumsy words than Eiju, but even if he struggled to understand what she called  _ theory _ , the important thing was learning the patterns of movement and how to read the scrolls full of lines and wedges.

“The Great Ganondorf  _ will _ smile when you bring him shakrot you made yourself,” said Varesh gently.

Link blushed and bowed his head in shame. Cake was not enough, but saying it again would only provoke another lecture from  _ one _ of his teachers, if not all of them. “ _ Everyone _ brings him sweets. Birthdays are supposed to be special.”

“Yes yes, the pleasure of the Great King is the first concern of everybody,” Isha added, rolling her eyes. “Let us begin at the beginning, yeah? A minor.”

Link walked his fingers over the strings with her in a gentle rise and fall. The opening was a rather soothing pentatonic study, warming the fingers of each hand with a few teasing little flourishes hinting at the embroidery later.

Varesh fidgeted and sipped a little spice tea while she waited and prepared to help him sing the poem she’d begun to teach him a month ago. No doubt she too despaired of his slow progress. They had only another week to solstice, and though Varesh was kind, he could see in her eyes that she doubted he would be able to play the whole song alone.

_ Dawn strides through the door of heaven - a glorious flower - golden life _

_ As rose-kissed Din returns from moonbed - a radiant lover - reborn _

_ So you dance the spirit paths - a scoured seed - surrendered _

Eiju said most love poetry spoke of the gods, and Din especially. As the patron of the passion, most lovers petitioned Her often. Yet she frowned when he chose this one, saying it wasn’t often sung in devotions  _ or _ in courting. Varesh shyly disagreed, saying it depended on the singer and who they sang to. Isha declared it a timeless masterpiece, suited to his voice and his chosen instrumental focus, though an ambitious goal for his progress in the art of music. Eiju grumbled, but conceded, claiming the paths of the moon were mysterious to her.

If he was honest with himself, a six months’ study illuminated little enough of it for him either. He was still clumsy with the needle, but he could spin fine threads for warp or weft from any kind of wool or locks or combed silk. He struggled a little with reeled silk and with linen, but the weavers said his work with those was more than good enough for the weft of blankets and cloaks. He was mostly restricted to simple sauces and preparing ingredients for the women in the kitchens, but Varesh agreed to let him help with the colossal task of preparing the festival sweets, most especially the cakes destined for the king’s own table. He thought music would come more easily, but Isha declared him only a passably competent beginner with every instrument he demonstrated for her.

_ She who raises mountains in her left hand _

_ She who pours sand from Her right _

_ She dances red clay into glorious Form _

_ She sings passion with gold in her womb _

The first three lines of the chorus felt like any other hymn, but the fourth still made him blush when he sang it. The Gerudo laughed at him for being embarrassed of pleasure and wombs and babies, and they laughed at Hylian custom which considered it improper to talk about in mixed company. 

In Hyrule, it was said the Bright Lady was the daughter of Nayru, that the Gerudo goddess was the daughter of Din, that all the divine dragons were children of Farore. Many lesser gods and spirits were said to be children of one or another god, always tracing their lineage back to the Golden Three. That was all anyone said or wrote - the begat. No holy story told of the goddesses making or carrying or bearing forth their children. Mortal details certainly weren't polite conversation either. It was almost impossible to imagine, a serene goddess moon-round, a golden immortal spirit bloody and striving in visceral immediacy.

Among the Gerudo, certain mysteries  _ were _ strictly kept from the ears of ilmaha, but they were all taught avadha who bled could become amali nurturing babies in their own flesh, that avadha who did not bleed became amali in tending the seedling and she who bore it, and the power of the lord of storms made all the sands flourish with new life. Even the youngest ilmaha knew what moon-bellies foretold, and might bring little offerings of mud-cakes and wildflowers to the shrine of the Mother of Sands in Her birthing chair to pray for health and strength for their amali and their seedling-sibs.

Link wrestled his mind back to the challenging second verse, with its long, complicated phrases alternating from song to string, each different, each longer than the last, until the held resonant chord under the fifth. Varesh sang so quietly he could not rely on his ears to remind him the next pattern.

_ As blushing dawn smiles on the hidden spring _

_ As Her bright hands nurture the tenderest creation _

_ As sacred light fills the hollow places, renewed and bright and true _

_ As the golden flower sinks Her roots that She may lift Her face to kiss the moon _

_ So my spirit pours life over yours _

By some miracle, he survived the verse this time, and without  _ any _ rebuke from Isha. He was grateful for the simpler structure of the chorus even so. He still couldn’t play the final flourishes at full speed, but Isha said it was better to present the intricate passage in his own meditative voice than to fumble through a copy of another musician’s style.

The technical challenge was only half the battle: he had to persuade his tiny audience he was in fact weaving a piece of his heart into his music or Isha would forbid him to publicly play the gentle closing phrase written only in the sacred version he found in the orange book of song-poems, and instead close with a set of three triumphal flourishes.

She did not stop him. She didn’t even shake her head or sigh at him. She continued moving her own elegant hands over the strings of her bright cittern, and watching his.

Varesh stopped singing, blushing deeply. Her throat probably pained her after adding an hour of helping his music practice to her already heavy workload moving between the kitchen courts and the scholars’ courts to help him understand his lessons. After the solstice, he would petition to go to the highlands and find some wild honey to thank her for her many kindnesses.

_ rejoice the broken place _

_ there I mend you _

The last note tapered to silence. No one said anything at all, but Isha nodded her head in thought. 

Link laid the cittern in his lap and wiped his palms dry on his sirwal again. He was astounded he made it through the entire thing without fumbling the whole instrument. “I think it was probably a little flat. I should have adjusted the pegs first, sorry.”

“Mmn. No, it wasn’t enough to justify. You will need to cut evening drill short the rest of the week and practice the chorus at twilight, to be more familiar with the tuning you’ll need for evening,” Isha countered, laying her instrument aside. “What will you wear?”

Link blinked at her. “Besides the circlet? Probably the snake jewels. At night it shouldn’t be  _ too _ sweaty.”

Nialet snorted, reaching for her tea.

“Is that all?” Eiju said dryly.

Link sighed, his ears burning  _ again _ . “I hadn’t thought about the clothing, other than obviously not the wool or the really thick silk. It all looks fancy to me. Is there a color to avoid?”

“Only purple, but I doubt that will be a problem,” said Isha, glancing at Nialet for confirmation. “It’s not a matter of law but  _ art _ . When you perform for another, you present  _ yourself _ as well as the song. Your manner and dress should be in harmony with the occasion, your spirit, and your truth.”

“You mean - every time we went to an estate and the avadha sang, they changed their clothes first so they could greet him?”

“Some, probably,” said Nialet with a shrug. 

Link swore. “That’s a crazy amount of work!”

“Would you hail the Great Ganondorf with onion juice on your hands and flour on your face? Unless Himself weaves a door into the garden direct, the towers speak in more than enough time to wash and don brighter veils,” said Varesh with a giggle.

“Perhaps a lesson best moved to the weavers’ courts,” said Nialet, draining her tea. “If Eiju can spare you?”

“I would be glad enough of the nap. Caly lured me into philosophical questions at nadir  _ again _ ,” grumbled the dry scholar.

“Do you have any clothes held aside which you  _ haven’t _ worn since I joined your lessons? Except the armor of course,” Varesh hazarded.

Link shook his head no, and it was true - nothing he held back could fairly be called clothing. Though his cheeks burned for remembering he’d left the black scarf on the shelf beside the bed. Gan forgot it months ago, and Link hadn’t even found it until several days after his last visit, and was too embarrassed to confess to the fastidious king he didn’t usually tidy the bed at all. By the time he learned of the law reserving all black for the king and his closest advisors should he choose to award it to them, it was far too late to admit he’d made a true theft of accident when he decided to hide it under his sleeping rugs and keep it for sentiment. 

“That helps - I remember the patterns well enough. Tell us what mood of spirit you feel in the song while we walk,” Varesh suggested with an encouraging smile. She rose from her cushion with more grace than he did, as usual.

“I will check on Lulu and join you later,” Nialet said as she rose.

Nialet did not, in fact, join them. 

Varesh assured him that Nialet’s absence did not mean she was displeased with him, but Lulu was entering a challenging season, and Nialet was never overfond of fashion to begin with. Knowledgeable, but she preferred exploring color in dying raw stuff in new and interesting shades for the weavers to then transform into thread and cloth. As a growth-tender, she spent much of her life in working clothes in any case. Even in festival clothing, she tended to select the same kinds of subtle color harmonies for herself whenever she needed to replace or retire something, always with green somewhere in the cloth for her profession. 

Varesh  _ also _ said half of her fancy clothes were gifts from Himself in any case, saving her the trouble of needing to spend her time on it. Varesh gently advised him that Nialet’s gift of helping him assemble a basic wardrobe on his first day should be understood as warm welcome and high opinion of his worth as a person, and honor given for the service he rendered to their beloved king,  _ not _ in deference for his rank.

Isha and Varesh helped him choose trims to harmonize with the rainbow-striped sash. The tiny purple stripe was apparently allowed in honor of his last life. They showed him drawings of different patterns of draping cloth, even more varied than he’d seen at the estate, saying which were popular with which professions and tribes, which in the highlands or the dry, rugged grazing lands, or the harsh western country. They explained which shapes of breastband were more easily harmonized to one sort of figure or another, to which kind of fabric and pattern, and how they all fastened.

He rather liked the narrow-woven white linen cloth with the gods’ teeth pattern in the same shape as Gan’s sash, and they agreed he could wear it in his festival bandeau. Varesh privately advised he ask Gan’s word before wearing it for everyday things though.

Nothing they suggested for sirwal seemed quite right, though he liked many of the shawls, and he agreed that a cropped, fitted, three-quarter sleeved jacket in deep forest-green silk would be a fine festival garment, complimenting the snake jewels. It seemed versatile enough for many seasons when paired with other things, comfortable for dancing and music - and ideal for not accidentally dragging his sleeve in his dinner.

Isha argued his sirwal should coordinate, that the dark color would be especially striking against his pale skin, but that much green was  _ far _ too much. They found a dozen other fabrics that  _ might _ work the forest silk and gods’ teeth linen, but neither of  _ them _ could narrow the choices further, and  _ he _ could not choose at all. Isha declared what was known could be begun, and tucked the twelve possibilities into a fat basket for later. Varesh explained what was needed to the women who worked in that part of the weavers’ courts, and Isha wrote his name in charcoal on a scrap of tan cloth, looped about the basket handle. They parted ways for Varesh to speak with her sisters in the kitchens, and Isha to return to her usual work. 

Link  _ should _ have gone directly to the scholar’s court, but despite the late afternoon heat he wanted to  _ move _ a bit before sitting down to needlework and lessons on politics and manners. Eiju wanted a nap anyway. She was surely beyond tired of her slowest pupil, and would only complain a little if he was tardy to rejoin her and Varesh.

His feet wandered towards the stables. Eiju called his ‘darkmoon-mind’ wild, saying that’s why he was drawn to animals, why he was so good with horses and the storehouse cats and such. She said if he didn’t work to know that part of himself and temper it, the wildness would become as a beast, ready to devour him in a time of weakness or crisis.

Her warning reminded him of painful shards of other lives, but he could hardly be sorry when it meant visiting Asifad and the other horses.

He froze when he heard Nialet’s voice raised in anger.

“This is  _ ridiculous _ \- we have spent the last two months making ready to celebrate your Nameday and you will burn it all in a fit of pique over a  _ song?” _

Ganondorf shouted back at once, resonant and commanding. “It’s not  _ just a song _ and you bloody well know it. Every ear in this estate will  _ know _ by the chorus that he proclaims to the world that I am no more use than a broken pot in his estimation. I could have you whipped for treason teaching him such impertinent behavior.”

Nialet spat a curse, undaunted. “You just try it, o va’rajena.”

Link pressed a hand to the warm stone of the archway connecting the gardens, hoping he’d sat down under some arbor and fallen asleep.

“Do not test me,” Ganondorf bellowed. “I do not idle in leisure by  _ necessity _ but  _ choice _ and you would do well to remember it!”

“I have no need to remember what my eyes behold every minute,” Nialet snapped. “You are in no condition to travel the sands unaccompanied. You are not even _ provisioned. _ ”

Ganondorf swore.

Link’s heart twisted as he realized he was certainly  _ not _ dreaming. He didn’t know enough curses well enough to remember them in his dreams, only the shouts and growls.

“You  _ know _ I give you truth. If your decision to ride into the sands had  _ any _ roots in reason at all you would have taken a ready satchel of field rations.”

“A witch has no need of such petty details,” Ganondorf sneered.

Link drifted closer to the stables, pressing himself close to the warm adobe-smoothed walls in the shade of a friendly desert willow.

“Oh? Then why didn’t you weave a gate an hour ago? Why do you not summon these petty supplies through the ether  _ now? _ ”

“I do not have to explain myself to you or anyone.”

Nialet  _ laughed _ . “You do if you want your horse.”

“Fine! I will go  _ without _ Asifad,” growled Ganondorf, his boots thumping on the stone floor, moving away.

“Will you? Because it’s even brighter in the garden. Don’t give me that look, I’ve known your connection to shadows for  _ sixteen years. _ ”

“You would have me endure this base insult  _ in public _ in the middle of my own damn festival-”

“A song of love and healing is not an insult,” she snapped.

Ganondorf roared. “ _ I do not need healing- _ ”

“Vo’yadaj disagrees,” Nialet interrupted, absolutely fearless. “As does every other spirit with two grains of reason in their skull. There is no shame in a cycle of recovery.”

“Foolish woman - a king is not bound by the weak patterns of common spirits. A great king is inviolable, indefatigable, he is-”

“Even the sun rests in the arms of the moon, not merely once when no one is capable of witness, but  _ every goddamn night _ . You  _ know _ this.”

Ganondorf swore. The rise and fall of his fury over the thump of his boots betrayed his pacing.

“O va’rajena,  _ listen to me, _ ” Nialet urged him, no longer shouting. He would never have heard her if stirred even a foot from the window far above. “You have needed this your whole life. We all mourn your wounds, and  _ we rejoice _ to see you  _ finally _ accept that your pattern is not meant to be woven alone.”

Ganondorf was  _ not _ finished shouting. “You have no right to speak this - this  _ preposterous _ slander! I do not answer to you or anyone. From the hour I seized my Name I was freed of any such obligation and I am in no humor to indulge any petition whatever.”

“You ceased to be the sole arbiter of your health the day you Named him.”

“ _ I am king, _ ” Ganondorf roared.

“And  _ he _ is your Exalted Moon, with or  _ without _ the goddamned gauntlet,” she snapped, her temper rising again.

“I know what he is!”

“Do you?  _ Do you really? _ Because that white rabbit quakes in terror from dawn to dusk that if he does not acquire mastery of every art under the stars by the time you finish reforging the Champion’s Axe that you will turn him out into the wilds in disgust.”

“Nonsense!”

“Have you told  _ him _ that?”

Ganondorf swore. “Every time I speak to him I encourage-”

“You do  _ not _ , in fact. Every time you call something  _ easy _ or  _ simple _ you feed his despair,” she argued. “If he sleeps more than three hours together on a night you  _ don’t _ fuck I should be very much surprised. He  _ knows _ the impossible standard against which you measure yourself-”

“Which is  _ precisely _ why I gave the management of his education to  _ you _ , that he might flourish in more merciful hands. And this is how you repay the honor? Teaching him to shout of my infirmity to the world? _ I will not endure another minute _ .”

“Indeed you will not if you refuse to leave off this goddamned tantrum. Sit down before you fall down,” she demanded, harsh as any of the weaponsmasters in the estate.

“I do not  _ want _ to sit,” he snapped.

“Your body disagrees, o va’rajena.”

He swore.

Link bit his fist to keep his tongue silent. He felt wretched overlistening, and in the same moment thrilled and terrified to hear the woman stand against the will of her king in ill temper. She surely knew his ruthless nature. She knew what he could and would do in anger, and she defied him in a way Link could never have imagined  _ anyone _ doing, in a way that demanded all his courage and focus to do.

“You  _ must _ begin to listen to it,” Nialet urged, lowering her rough voice again. “The battle is over at last, and every drop of pain you refused to acknowledge before is waiting for you. And I can promise you whatever happened out there, however bad that  _ particular _ collection of wounds? It is  _ one barrel  _ of water to the flood which hungers for your heart.”

Ganondorf roared in fury. “Do not speak where you know nothing-!”

Nialet waited for the echo to fade, speaking with quiet authority. “I don’t.”

“Sa’hakoum,” Ganondorf groaned, followed by a thump and creak of his weight dropping onto one of the stable benches. “ _ Why _ must you be so  _ impossible  _ vo’kalu?”

“I have heard the stumbling stutter where once beat a war drum. I am no heroine nor even a warrior-”

“Enough,” he snapped. “I’ve told you a thousand times I will not countenance such rot-”

_ “And therefore _ I am not obligated to pretend I am not afraid of what will happen should you leave our care in this state of mind.”

Ganondorf groaned. “Nialet-”

“Your fury over his gentle song is the highest possible evidence of how badly you need it. He is your moon, reflecting your truths to illuminate your heart, dancing the tides of body and spirit to balance your fires. He may not yet know in his mind the shape of the pattern guiding his actions. He may not yet have the words even when he does. Even so, his spirit reaches to tend yours in the very same moment as he cries in bereft agony that he doesn’t know what he is or what he is supposed to do. You knew it was true when you Named him, and you know it in your heart of hearts now.”

“You don’t understand,” countered Ganondorf, his deep voice strangely thinned. “I can’t sit there and listen to him sing healing over me and maintain my composure without  _ heavy _ illusions after everything that’s happened. I never expected to see this day - and I don’t - I am beyond the edge of all maps and plans I held ready. I scouted paths for every possible circumstance but this. The few certainties which remain - I  _ cannot _ yield. I cannot allow another strike past my shield.”

Nialet sighed. “So tell him you have heard of his anxiousness in learning the cittern and his plan to bring the instrument to the feast. Say you want him to have experience playing for an audience before he undergoes a Trial of performing for a whole estate. Let his tribute song remain a surprise, but advise him to bring the cittern to a council audience or to join you in the garden some morning with the ilmaha to admire his skill, or come to the scholar’s court openly to see the progress of  _ all _ his studies.”

“I  _ can’t _ be his teacher. I can’t withdraw from - from the  _ other _ pattern to guide his path instead. Not now. Not after everything that has been woven between us already.”

“A thread of wisdom shared in gentleness is not  _ teaching _ , and will  _ not _ weave the divisive imbalance you think it will,” she argued.

“You don’t understand,” he said, his voice muffled.

“So tell me,” she urged. “ _ They no longer watch. _ It is safe at last for you to speak the truth of your heart. It is time  _ you _ hear the wisdom you have given so many.”

“Nialet vo’dyate geldenai kalu’v,” groaned Ganondorf, his voice tapering away to an incomprehensible murmur.

“You  _ need _ to grieve for this river you’ve crossed, for the stones you’ve carried, for the desolation you’ve endured. If you cannot speak to your Voices  _ or _ your Sparrows, speak to vo’chadali. Stop rebuking yourself for not finding him earlier. If the gods will that anyone see  _ why _ it was woven that you find him  _ now, _ the pattern will be revealed in the gods’ time, not ours. Set aside this stone, o va’dyath rajena’v. Let him sing the truth of his heart to you, let the medicine work, and let yourself  _ weep _ .”

Link pressed his whole weight against the wall in the long silence, aching and wretched. He was afraid they might come from the stable and see him. He was afraid of a servant finding him lurking in the shadows. He was afraid of what he might hear next, and he was afraid of what he would  _ not _ hear if he ran.

“Va’dyath rajena  _ please _ , I  _ do _ know the light of your spirit. I  _ remember _ how you chose the burden of shuttle and blade _ as ilmaha _ . Howsoever unbeautiful and painful, you have done what was necessary. No -  _ enough _ . Unless you would wield your magic to carve a hundred thousand truths from my spirit, you  _ will not  _ convince me the monstrous parts of the pattern are the whole of you.”

Link cringed, resting his brow on the stone wall - a mistake, scraping the platinum and fire opal circlet against the adobe and probably scratching the brilliant stones that announced the favor of the Gerudo king. 

_ How could a hero of legend allow sentiment for a monstrous thing? _

_ You are not what has been done to you. _

_ Nonetheless I am what I have done. _

_ The design of the gods is not a kind one, even less when we seek to change it. Whatever name or crown you choose to wear, you are still a man. _

_ Mother of Sands grant your soft heart does not one day prove a deadly weakness. _

The taut and uncertain quiet of the conversation he shouldn’t even be trying to hear became too much. He  _ should _ be glad Ganondorf stopped shouting. He could not move past the pain. He slunk away through the shadows under the row of desert willows and into the deepening gloom under the east garden wall. 

Varesh sat with Eiju in the garden of the scholar’s court, drinking spiced lemonade.

Waiting for him.

“Va’hei loattai.” Link bowed deeply, which made Varesh laugh, and Eiju snort. He folded himself on a low stone wall, accepting the cup of lemonade Varesh offered. “Sorry I’m late. I sometimes lose count of hours when I’m in these gardens.”

“There is no use picking up your needle for another hour or two anyway,” said Eiju with a shrug.

“No, I will only stain the linen,” he agreed, soothing his aching throat with the lemonade.

“Your inflection was much better by the way, but you will not be using that form long for anyone but Onchali Sravoe Nabooru avadha Saiev Chalut, yadaj.”

“Is she going to come here for solstice?”

“Unlikely,” said Varesh with a sigh. “The First Legion has held the Great Bridge south of the Mother And Child Stones since he advanced into Hyrule last spring. And there is… difficulty between their patterns.”

_ I am a lone wolf thief. I will never follow an evil king. _

Link grimaced at the jagged memory shard. He was relieved he wouldn’t have to meet her yet, and felt guilty for it. “Why must I practice words that I shouldn’t even say?”

“You need to  _ know _ how they are properly woven with sincerity of spirit so you can measure the meaning when it is woven on another’s tongue,” she said. “Remember the legend of the first Exalted, and while the Exalted Sun fought glorious battles and brought the People wealth and victory, the Exalted Moon illuminated truth and tended balance within the golden lands, strengthening the Great King and guiding the alliance of the tribes in a difficult time.”

_ The path of the moon moves inward. _

A warrior, but not a leader of armies. A bodyguard, a political advisor, a healer, a  _ spy _ . “In the legend, the enemies and traitors always underestimated her. They saw her strength with the axe but not her grace in dancing, her skill in tile games, or the power in her songs. She wore a  _ mask _ over her power as the mountain spirit masked her beauty to test the virtue of loattah Velija.”

“Exactly so,” said Eiju, her eyes crinkling with rare, subtle approval. “Thus. For you it is more fitting to weave  _ savai avha _ , or  _ sa’baalaq avadha _ , or simply  _ sav’aaq _ for ilmaha or one close.”

“Did he find the moon armor he was looking for?” Link traced beads of sweat on the side of the cup. His early hatred of calligraphy had exchanged places with his fumbling frustration with manners lessons. Understanding basic forms and the common call-and-answer greetings made his days easier, but complex politics and the etiquette of rank and profession were  _ excruciating _ .

“Not yet, but ancient metal is not what makes a hero,” said Varesh gently.

“Maybe not. But neither does it make my Name any greater than yours. I am still an outsider, grateful for your welcome. I prefer to honor you. I will  _ keep _ the  _ va’hei _ .” 

Eiju sighed, her approval dried up and blown away.

“ _ Why _ is it forbidden for one who has a bigger title to give the honor? Why do the words in their Name trap them on a mountain peak, above everyone and alone, where  _ anything _ imperfect is terrible?”

“It isn’t  _ forbidden _ . It carries a different meaning when a warrior, a champion, an Exalted says  _ glory _ to anyone. It is deeper than respect and honor in the way of the softlands, it is power in motion. I say  _ vo’hei yadaj chadali _ , and I offer respect, power, authority in honor of who you are and the great deeds woven in your pattern. Refusing to accept says I am unworthy to behold your glory, much less speak of it, or benefit from your protection. When as my student you say  _ va’hei loatta streka _ , you honor my knowledge and authority and submit to learn what I know that you do not. For yadaj to say it  _ before _ I have given you glory, you are surrendering your power to kneel as a student, and to say it  _ after _ is to remain  _ yadaj _ , accepting the honor I give to your pattern, while showing humility in those patterns where  _ I _ have greater skill and experience.”

“When you accept the mantle of Exalted, speaking glory first would be understood as a refusal of the duty to lead and guard. You  _ must _ wait, or else offer one of these simple benedictions in greeting to say you meet informally,” said Varesh.

“Being  _ yadaj _ is hard enough - and I am not so certain he  _ will _ offer me that power after all,” Link began, toying with the cup. He  _ liked _ the Gerudo way of making lemonade with firefruit and spice in it, but he couldn’t settle his skin with the argument still ringing in his ears. “Maybe I am a little bit moon-pathed, but no one could be worse with words than me.  _ Onchali Chadali  _ doesn’t just fight with blades, but  _ everything _ . Words, dressing, music, dancing. Knowing what someone says in choosing one patterned cloth over another, which tongue stumbles accidentally-on-purpose, who danced with who and when. I? Am  _ just _ a warrior. I run and ride and hit things. If people want to call me a hero for that, ok. But not  _ Exalted _ .”

Eiju sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Varesh hummed in thought, folding her hands over her knee. “You measure yourself too humbly. I have seen you weave with the most subtle threads of the Sun’s Ray from the very first day you arrived, and the stories he tells of the journey home from Hyrule say it is the same since your awakening. It is beyond rare for  _ anyone _ to understand the patterns of the Great Ganondorf until they are woven and done, and often not even then. The ways of a Great King are long, complex, and subtle. The hunter who can pluck a hair from the tail of a living lynel can certainly learn to track deer.”

_ He is your Exalted Moon, with or without the gauntlet. _

Link sighed, and held lemonade on his tongue for a moment. When he could bear it no longer he filled his lungs and raised his eyes to his waiting teachers. “The poem I found - it’s  _ magic _ , isn’t it?” 

“On the tongue of a witch or healer, yes, and to a much lesser degree if one who is  _ not _ sings to one who is,” Eiju said quietly. 

“Why didn’t you  _ tell _ me?”

Varesh shook her head. “To speak of what the magic  _ could _ do would be to also  _ see _ and  _ speak _ … certain things… that would… be  _ shocking _ in the pattern of a Great King. If it does nothing, nothing changes, and if it does magic, then less of those things might be woven hereafter. Your spirit was drawn to it for a reason - why should we urge you to doubt your pattern?”

Link winced, wondering if she already knew some of what he’d overheard. He heard Gan’s voice warning him that scars spoke of lessons on other people, and omens on him. “He carried scars when I awakened, which surely many petitioners knew. Why were  _ those _ not frightening to the People the way the new ones are?”

Both women blushed and looked away, fidgeting.

Eiju answered first. “When the Lady of Sands Names a true Prince, She will place the mark of the ancestors on his skin, and it is recorded in the  _ Book of the King. _ ”

“If you mean the one on his shoulder, _ I’d  _ say She  _ burned _ it into his skin,” Link grumbled.

“The  _ point _ is - anything older was a lesson learned  _ before _ the Sun’s Ray came into his power. It’s different,” Eiju insisted.

“The Great Ganondorf has taken only superficial wounds before, cuts and scrapes and the like, easily healed. His earrings were torn in the first seasons of the eastward advance six years ago. I was serving the Legions in that year. I heard one older Varcha speak of it as an ill omen and suggest he did not heal the little tears because he  _ could not _ when the second happened, and by the next sunset the Sun’s Ray  _ also _ heard. He made her face him in the challenge ring, withholding the killthrust until he’d beaten her dozens of times by blade and by magic, and  _ then _ flogged her for treason.  _ Personally _ ,” said Varesh softly. “I knew all four avha who perished by those assassins’ blades. None were warriors.”

_ Memorials. Like the tally-marks on his thighs. Grief and guilt masked as bait for a fight, because anger and violence are things he can let people see and still be Strong. _ “I need to find a different gift. I can’t play that song anymore. I thought it would be nice, that it would help, but I see now it - says wrong things.”

The women frowned at one another.

Varesh spoke first. “What happened, yadaj?”

“I - overheard something in the garden,” he confessed, his whole face on fire with shame. “You’ve been high in his regard for years. You know him well.  _ Please _ l’vaisa Varesh, teach me a better way to give him happiness.”

She lifted her chin and rolled her shoulders back, her soft and yielding manner melting away to reveal a fierceness underneath which startled him. “Let the fury of the Sun’s Ray scour the stars from the heavens if it must, and  _ do not yield _ . You know the true need in his spirit. Be as the moon when she moves the hidden waters.”

Ganondorf did not attend the evening meal that day or the next, or the next after that, eating in private with first Nialet and then some petitioner. He did not leave the estate, but remained busy in the sword courts or stillroom or ilmaha courts or the magic workroom at the top of the central building. Varesh said these taciturn moods and obsession with his work were longstanding habits: she said even as a prince he would withdraw from society for days or weeks at a time, attending only those petitions which demanded purely technical skill and scholarship, or else could provide him magical fuel for his other work with a minimum of conversation.

It didn’t ease his mind at all. 

Memories of other lives said all too clearly that Gan was at his most dangerous when he was obsessing over something, alone. Allowing Nialet’s company even a little was surely cause for hope though. He tried to believe Gan doting on all the children was also - he absorbed every crumb of gossip he could and even spied on his king playing games with his little thieves in the  _ dorviru’raj _ , encouraging Severa and Lulu to crawl between their parents or after one of their bright toys. It remained beyond strange to see Gan so soft. 

But he couldn’t be sure his apparent contentment in idleness was not a mask.

He dressed carefully, fussing with the folds of his new goldenrod-and-honey sirwal. The yoke and cuffs were adorned with simple running stitches in pale cream and darkest green to match his bandeau and jacket. He felt better with dark slippers instead of the pale gray and silvery ones they’d given him before, even though they were more elaborately adorned. Something about the pale moon-colors they liked to put him in made him itchy, though not quite the same way as green. He pulled the jacket on anyway, once he had the snake pectoral secured properly - six separate loops across the inside front of the gods’ teeth bandeau strained his patience. The clever white-and-goldenrod embroidery on the jacket gave him places to thread the extra hair combs and secure the far-too-large coiled snake armbands which he otherwise couldn’t wear. The only part of the snake jewel set he couldn’t find a way to wear at all was the too-large rings, so he threaded them on a leather cord and just hung them from his sash.

If the summerstones really did have healing magic, maybe his song would make it awaken.

Link decided against trying to refresh the kohl on his own - Varesh’s work from yesterday would have to be good enough. He was far too likely to ruin it. A light brushing of mica dust over his skin was about all his cosmetics skill he could manage on his own. He could braid other people’s hair, but not his own, so he settled the circlet in place and bound back his short queue with a short white ribbon as usual, tucking one of the wider combs just above it.

He might never be able to wear them all.

His hair simply did not grow.

Link shrugged off the oddity and shouldered his cittern. Nothing else about him was normal anyway. It didn’t matter. The important thing was that Ganondorf would be dancing the sword flower for another two hours, and Nialet promised he had no appointments until after the hour of madness. The  _ dorviru’heiat  _ would be empty.

Link draped the gods’ teeth mantle from the Hakoum estate over his festival finery. It was really too warm, but wearing the nice-but-not-formal mantle should be less noteworthy than the rest of his clothes. Also the voluminous fabric would help disguise the occasional awkward step - or surreptitious adjustment - because of the lotus bulb. The fourth bauble Gan gave him was an increase altogether more challenging than the difference between second and third, much less first and second. 

Like the others, it was sculpted in golds and greens and blues, but the bulb of this one had a much more blunt taper in addition to greater girth in bulb and stem. His body resisted it, but once settled its weight and presence was soothing - and  _ greatly _ helped the vividness of his imaginings when he stroked himself. Gan hadn’t come to him since, and he hoped it would please him to see how well his body embraced it. 

Especially if he helped again.

Link paused in the shade of an espaliered fig to school his breath and haul his thoughts back into focus. Varesh told him the path to the king’s rooms on the fourth floor of one of the western buildings, and slipped him the golden key, but it was  _ not _ a direct route, and he needed time to arrange himself and tune the cittern - and hopefully, practice.

The final courtyard was bright and open, a formal and tightly packed arrangement of low safflina and herb beds. A  _ cat _ would be challenged to find a shadow there after the second hour of dawn until nearly twilight. No canopy nor lattice shaded the stairs either, and heat pooled in the tight corridor. The doors on all the other landings led to storerooms - at the fourth there was no door at all, but a pierced-stone lattice running the width of the terrace, with one open arch in the middle  _ at least _ nine feet high.

Varesh said little about the rooms themselves, except a cryptic aside that not everything would be as it seemed. As if he didn’t know Gan’s penchant for illusion already. He decided not to soar back to the tomb for a truthlens, and take his chances with whatever defensive traps Gan might have laid. 

The terrace beyond the arch was paved with thick, unglazed red clay tiles set a thumb’s width apart in a bed of tiny gravel. A fat bloodlime stood in each corner in enormous pots. Long, shallow pots stuffed with golden safflina lined the terrace and vines crawled up the walls and supports for the white canopies above - morning glory to the east, moonflower to the west. He hadn’t noticed from below that the east wall overlooking the garden was more of an elaborate geometric lattice than a wall, but from above his view of the herb garden was perfectly clear.

A few benches of heavy ironwood stood around the terrace, each bracketed by dwarf lemons, memoryleaf topiary, red-tea plants, and some unidentifiable feathery thing. Formal, orderly, and flourishing without being  _ fancy _ . In fact, the terrace was rather plain overall, the walls and lattice and canopies all the same unadorned warm white. The pots were all the same, slab-built red clay rectangles or barrel-shaped thrown vessels, all with a single white chevron stripe around the belly and alternating dots and lines between each point.

The one hint of true luxury in the terrace leading to the state rooms was the sound of water from what he expected to be a bench nook in the middle of the west wall. Link hadn’t seen any outdoor fountains in the golden lands except within a sheltered oasis - water was too precious to risk its waste in the heat of day. His curiosity pulled him away from seeking the carved ironwood doors at the far end of the terrace.

There was no bench.

Framed by the thriving greenery, the fountain stretched nearly the entire height of the wall to trickle into a shallow square basin lined with bright tessarae mirroring the design of the mechanism.

The wheel moved. The clicking of hidden gears glued his feet to the tiles and cinched his throat so tight he struggled to draw breath.

In essence, it was the gods’ teeth as a circle, with silvered tesserae scattered within the hoop as stars, and a disk set at the center with the sun in glory opposite a waxing quarter moon. The sun clicked a tiny measure higher in its arc above the horizon line picked out across the star disk in ever-so-slightly-darker cream. It perfectly matched the angle of the sun in that moment, as the moon matched, as the constellations in the mirrored tesserae matched. 

The crenel-toothed blue hoop clicked one more notch in its circuit, spilling water from a hidden cup behind the tooth into a cup hidden behind a rust-orange triangular ray. Beyond the arms of the orange rays, the disk closest to the wall was painted with stylized calligraphic clouds over subtle washes of the eight sacred colors in Gerudo tradition. The red of Flight, Fire, Passion, War, and Din Herself was moving toward the apex.

Below the great wheel, two lesser crenel-toothed hoops in blue-green rose from the basin to mesh with the blue teeth of the greater.

Link stared at it clicking and ticking and burbling and trickling, too dizzy to move. His heart hammered against his ribs, and he couldn’t unclench his fists. He squeezed his eyes shut, but that only made it worse, for the timegate followed him into the darkness in lurid orange and blue phosphine. An echo of shrill, mad laughter stung his ears. He forced his eyes open, craning his neck to peer up through the white canopies to assure himself the moon wasn’t leering down at him with flaming eyes.

The heat bore down on him. He struggled to strip the mantle off, dropping it on the tiles and desperately trying to persuade his lungs to  _ work _ .

“It’s a waterclock,” rumbled Gan from behind him.

Link couldn’t push words off his tongue. He shook his head slightly.

“It’s fed by the same hidden pipes connecting the various baths to the oasis. A small reservoir is embedded in the granite of the outer wall which continues to feed the core mechanism when the valves must be shut and this larger face stilled during the black winds or similar. It is of course warded against such damage, but when the wards do inevitably fail, there is a scroll detailing its construction and maintenance sealed in the wall above it,” he said, still low and dry. “Nialet is aware of its placement, when it becomes necessary to retrieve.”

Link gestured helplessly, still transfixed.

“Every palace has one much like this, and most estates have a much smaller version in the council chambers, fed either by a cistern on the roof or a closed loop reservoir like the others they have here. They  _ are _ intricate machines, but hardly  _ relics _ ,” he said. A whisper of cloth suggested movement, but his voice seemed no closer. “Did you not notice them before?”

Link shook his head no, fighting to force his attention away from the terrifying clock-gate-calendar.

“I think your room is  _ a bit  _ small for one, but I have long been tinkering with adapting the new Terminan fashion for wholly mechanical clockworks to serve a more comprehensive celestial timepiece. If you like this design I can begin the enamelwork on disks of a suitable size. Casting such delicate gears in adamant should be an interesting challenge to conquer before your Awakening Day.”

Link shook his head vehemently. 

“ _ No? _ But you are very nearly bewitched by this little commonplace-”

“No,” rasped Link.

“It is no trouble. I enjoy the art,” said Gan with a wry little snort.

“Not that,” said Link, shaking his head and trying once again to force his feet to move. “The shape. It reminds me of - something.”

“I should hope so. It is a reflection of the Great Pattern, after all.”

“Not that. If you did not invent it - where does it come from?” Link managed to pivot one-quarter turn, but he could only drag his eyes away from the gate briefly.

Gan studied him, head tilted in his usual hawkish fashion, frowning down his long nose at him. “Where?  _ Everywhere. _ It is an  _ ancient _ sacred design, found in every shrine and ruin from the Thundering River to the Wastes.”

“Where is the oldest?” Link rasped, swallowing hard.

“Unless there is another buried under the Wastes, we destroyed it.”

“Oh.”

“Do not grieve for it. A pattern does not cease to be simply for one weaving of it being unraveled. The Great Pattern is eternal,” said Gan, folding his arms. “There is a well-preserved bas relief depicting it in the pediment of the inner cella of the Temple of Lanaryu in the Toruma ruins. If your teachers will grant you a holiday of - oh, likely a month for travel and beginning to appreciate the architecture should serve.”

Link sighed, dropping his gaze to the tiles at his feet. It was easier to turn in stages than all at once. “You are supposed to be dancing the sword-flower rajena’v.”

“Hn,” said Gan. “Do you think I have miraculously forgotten how to weave constructs?”

Link groaned a curse, raking a hand through his hair and knocking the circlet askew, which obliged him to fix it. At least it gave his hands a purpose. “So you can leave without l’vaisa Nialet knowing.”

“That’s a  _ curiously specific _ accusation,” countered Gan, his tone barely touched with dry amusement. Which might or might not be genuine. He was especially good at wearing the mask of sardonic indifference.

“L’vaisa Nialet has strong opinions about things,” said Link cautiously.

Gan snorted. “If ever she does  _ not _ , you will shortly want a healer for one of you.”

Link dared a glance up at him, relieved to find the corners of his eyes crinkling in true amusement. A thin gold circlet with a golden triangle that locked around his spirit gem helped keep his bright hair off his brow. A thin golden chain around his neck held a jade pendant shaped vaguely like a stag’s head and set with a fat topaz cabochon. He wore a snowy linen kurta Link had never seen before, with the spiral key and the gods’ teeth embroidered in blackwork at the tails and cuffs. The collar and placket were black, with a thin border and undulating coils of spiritwinds in thread-of-gold. He’d paired it with a voluminous black silk sirwal, embroidered from the hem halfway to his knee in the same three layered patterns in thread of gold. His soft indoor slippers were black, tooled and gilded.

“You look well,” rumbled Gan softly, his good eye roving over him with the same attentive appraisal.

Link’s ears burned. It was still hard to think with the waterclock click-ticking in his ears. “Never so well as you rajena’v. You wear fancy things like a second skin. I am forever afraid I will snag something.”

“Nearing twelve years of practice yadaj,” countered Gan wryly. “We  _ could _ help you with the distraction of those fine silks my sisters made for you.”

“Not yet!” Link clutched his jacket, as if that would stop Gan’s magic from stealing things if he decided to. “I have to - you can’t take them yet. The petal is as much part of the flower as the fragrance.”

“Hn. Your charming accent makes the proverb even more amusing. Is that the best cittern they could find for you?”

Link sighed. “What’s wrong with the cittern?”

“Nothing - for a  _ student _ .”

“Which I am-!”

“Hn.”

“Not everything has to be luxury and riches to be good-! Will you say this terrace is poor because it is plain? Why should the song be any less worthy from a simple instrument than a fancy one?”

“Petals and fragrance,” countered Gan, drifting a step closer so his shadow nearly touched his feet. “The spirit of the artist blossoms best and most fully with tools well-suited to their form and their art. A resonance suited to their voice. A shape pleasing to the hand. Ornament that compliments their beauty and speaks of their heart. Yours should be cedar, with silver inlay, just for a beginning.”

Link sighed, slipping the amberwood cittern with its white-and-green strap from his shoulder. “So. You will not hear my song unless it is perfect.”

Gan tipped his head the other way, though surely he could barely see at that angle. The sunlight warmed his rich olive skin, and made the pale lumen-stone cosmetics around his blind eye even more chalky and startling. “You come to  _ sing _ for me do you?”

“Ok, it’s not fair to do that  _ thing _ right now,” groaned Link.

“Hn. And what thing is that?” Gan purred.

Link swore.

Gan stole his cittern by magic, whisking it away to gods only knew where.

Link swore again.

“Hn. It  _ is _ said the greatest and best art is the consequence of  _ extensive practice _ ,” purred Gan, gliding closer.

“Oh Gan  _ please _ , you know I can’t think straight when you do that with your voice.”

“Do you  _ really _ want to? On a glorious summer morning such as this?”

“It’s not summer until tomorrow,” stammered Link, stepping sideways.

“A detail of no import whatever.”

“ _ Gan _ . I didn’t come here for that,” Link pleaded, circling around him.

Gan pivoted in perfect mirror of his movement because  _ of course _ he did. Even though the morning sunlight through the pierced eastern wall should have made it even harder for him to see. “No battle plan survives the first engagement.”

“I didn’t come for a fight either.”

“Hn.”

“They said you would be in the sword courts like you’ve been all week and no one would be up here,” stammered Link, retreating east.

Not that it did him any good. Gan followed with all his usual lazy arrogance. “You have refused every opportunity to enter my chambers here, and now that you come in all this moonflower glory to sing in my garden, you misplace the courage to see it through?”

“ _ You _ stole the cittern,” snapped Link, cheeks burning.

“You won’t be needing it.”

“ _ Gan. _ You are being  _ impossible. _ ”

“Am I?  _ Do _ elaborate,” Gan returned, his lopsided grin perfectly wicked.

Link groaned a curse, unable to retreat any farther without climbing over the bench. “The rooms were  _ supposed _ to be  _ empty _ . I was  _ supposed _ to have time to _ make ready  _ for your return from dancing your sword drills. I was  _ supposed _ to be first to bring you birthday tribute.”

“ _ Oh _ , I think you still will be, unless you’re craving a woman to share.”

“Goddesses have mercy - you  _ know _ that’s not what I mean-! Why must you twist everything around so?” Link stepped up on the bench.

Gan caught his arm just above the elbow before he could finish stepping over it, and made him turn. “ _ Kiss me. _ ”

Link swallowed hard, startled by the new perspective. The ironwood bench was measured for Gerudo height, and standing on it brought his eyes nearly level with Gan’s if he just lifted up on his toes a  _ little _ . He was so used to having to look up at everybody, it was startling - and in that moment of shock he forgot to retreat.

Gan leaned so close his nose tickled Link’s cheek and the heat of his lips made his own tingle. He used the most seductive of murmurs. “Just  _ one _ little tribute-kiss, hero?”

“It  _ won’t _ be just one kiss though,” whispered Link.

“ _ Such promises _ ,” Gan returned, nuzzling close, his soft lips so agonizingly close, his breath sweet with honey and clove. A feather could not have been drawn between them without tickling them both, but Gan held fast to his design of torment, refusing to touch first.

Link whimpered.

He surrendered to temptation.

Just a little.

Gan hummed in amusement as they kissed, starting slow and tender as he so often did when he was in a wicked mood. When Link pulled away to scramble after breath, he confirmed the suspicion with another devastatingly seductive rumblepurr. “Tell me to stop.”

“Why?” Link panted, torn between the lure of a rare version of The Game, and his true purpose. Once, if the memory-shards could be trusted, maintaining discipline had come easily, but in the shadow of the desert king, all changed.

“Oh? Changed your mind again have you? Decided this  _ is _ what you want after all?” Gan rumbled softly, flicking his tongue over his lips.

“Don’t be stupid. I always want to be with you, but I want to do  _ other _ things with you and for you too,” Link groaned, leaning close to press their brows together as he laced his arms around Gan’s neck.

“Then prove it.  _ Tell me to stop, _ ” taunted Gan, grabbing his free arm in mirror of the first.

“ _ Why _ are you making me  _ choose _ between the song and your touch? That’s not  _ fair _ ,” Link whined, though he couldn’t help but follow Gan’s nudge, giving him an easy angle to lick and nip at his neck.

“Isn’t it? I am king, and you  _ will _ sing for me when I  _ tell _ you to sing anon,” Gan rumbed, pushing him slowly off balance, kept from a fall solely by his fierce grasp. “ _ Tell me to stop. _ ”

“But I - don’t want to say that,” whispered Link.

“No?”

“I  _ like _ your hands and -  _ oof _ , yes that too. But if you could just  _ wait _ ,” Link moaned.

“I am not interested in waiting. I will have you  _ now, _ ” purred Gan, nipping at his ear. “ _ Unless. _ ”

“ _ Why _ do you want me to say that? Why?  _ Oh _ \- careful, I’m slipping - I’m going to fall,” panted Link desperately.

Gan pushed him still farther, pinning him against the pierced stone wall, which was  _ somehow _ a  _ lot _ closer than it was a few minutes ago. “I am king. I don’t need to explain myself to you or anyone.”

“I  _ don’t _ want you to  _ stop _ . Just to  _ wait _ . Please, one hour rajena’v, one little hour.” Link closed his eyes as Gan trapped him against the pierced wall and licked sweat from his neck. “Bring the cittern back so I can sing for you, please, and  _ then _ I am yours.”

“ _ Hnnn _ yadaj’v,” Gan murmured, rambling off into something that could be words or nonsense but it was impossible to hear clearly - or think clearly on what he did hear - with Gan’s burning mouth marking his skin. 

“I’m gonna have to wear a mantle for  _ days _ if you keep doing that,” Link whined.

Gan laughed, and sucked harder at his shoulder just above the jewels. Where the jacket would only hide the empurpled mark if it hung  _ perfectly _ . Which it wouldn’t.

“You’re making this very hard,” Link whined.

It was the absolute wrong thing to say, and knowing it as it left his tongue didn’t help in the slightest. Gan’s enveloping hand cupped his rising agony, a perfectly eloquent rebuke.

“Tell me to stop,” he purred.

Link moaned in torment. His skin  _ begged _ for him to embrace his king. His mood and desire was  _ clear _ for once: he demanded begging directly when he wanted to be hailed not as  _ king _ but as  _ master _ , in Geld’o or Hylian, either seemed to please him equally. But his insistent demand that Link refuse him was one of his favorite ways to make him profess his own desire in a hundred thousand obscene petitions for his king to tangle with him in pleasure.

He didn’t want to say no.

He didn’t want to lose his one opportunity to play the song either.

Which was no doubt  _ why _ Gan demanded him that way. 

Ganondorf  _ liked _ torture. 

Link struggled against his grasp, but it was no use unless he leveraged enough force to cause real hurt. Gan’s roving hand made his struggle to find a third path even harder with every passing minute. The height of the bench made it even easier for Gan to turn his bones to clay. 

“You have to say it in words,” Gan taunted, stroking his palm against his shaft through the silk sirwal. “Tell me to stop  _ now _ , little hero.”

“I  _ can’t _ , and you  _ know _ it,” Link cried.

“Your tongue works perfectly well. Just a few little tiny words, maybe even  _ one _ .”

“I don’t want to say  _ that _ at all! Just - just  _ wait _ , please, not yet, not now, let me  _ breathe, _ Gan,” Link begged.

“Tell me to stop before someone comes up here to see you tied to the garden wall with your creamy skin bared to the heavens,” Gan murmured, walking his fingers up to the yoke in search of the ties hidden under the rainbow sash.

“Why would they come up here? Did you summon a servant? A petitioner? These rooms are supposed to be empty - oh be careful these are brand new!”

“Then tell me to stop,” purred Gan, nipping at his neck.

“Answer me-! Is someone coming?”

“Hn.  _ Maybe, _ ” said Gan, shifting his grasp to use both hands on his sirwal. Not that this gave him any avenue of escape: bright magic threaded around the coiled-snake arm bands and tethered him to the pierced stone wall even more thoroughly. “Can you just  _ imagine _ what they will say to behold your pretty pink spear lifted in salute to the Sun’s Ray? The salacious gossip which will blossom for this moonflower baring petals in a golden morning?”

“Oh  _ why _ would you do that? Isn’t it bad enough the leaders here know our secret?”

Gan dropped the loosened ties and cupped his hands around his hips. “Then tell me to stop touching you.”

Link whimpered, searching Gan’s sardonic expression, but there was nothing to see. He was closed and unreadable as ever, mildly amused by his captive’s anxious conflict. “I have  _ tried _ to be discreet, but they all know I think of you, yearn for you. I’ve not told them anything, I swear, I’ve kept your secrets as much as I can, but I  _ cannot _ hide my own heart. They see me too well. I try,  _ oh _ I try for you, but I’m not good at desert ways yet.”

“ _ Hnn _ ,” said Gan, nuzzling against his cheek. “I’m gonna do  _ such things _ to you if you don’t make me stop.”

Link groaned in agony. “ _ Why _ do you have to be so impossible? I  _ need _ to sing while there’s still a chance, before you slip away in secret, while I still have at least one thread of courage to cling to, but  _ goddess bright _ I want more.”

“ _ Hn _ ,” said Gan, resting a knee on the bench and bowing to kiss his shoulder. His strong hands slid higher, emphasising the differences between them despite the helpful height of the bench. He snuck his thumbs under the bandeau, dragging it up his chest as he kissed and licked and nibbled his way down.

Link soon felt  _ very _ glad his skin had healed of the burns. He cried out in spite of himself when Gan suckled at his nipples. The bunched-up cloth of the bandeau cinched too tight across his upper chest, while the loosened sirwal slipped lower every time Gan caressed him.

He wondered what people  _ would _ think to see them beginning to tangle like that, with Gan tying him to the wall and exposing him while demanding he refuse the pleasure. He wondered what people would think to see their king take a knee and wrap his lips around his Champion’s cock. He wondered what people would think if Gan pushed him off the bench afterward and took his mouth in turn.

“Cold?” Gan paused his feast solely to increase his torment.

“ _ Not the word I’d use for it, _ ” Link gasped. 

Gan laughed at him. Caressed him. Waist and hips and thighs and ass.

And stopped.

Gan licked his lips, trailing his fingers oh-so-gently back down the cleft. “ _ Interesting. _ ”

“Uh oh,” breathed Link as he grazed the flare of the lotus.

“Didn’t come for that, did you?”

“Honest. I swear I didn’t,” Link stammered.

“Then  _ why,  _ I wonder,” said Gan, trailing his tongue down the side of his cock as he caressed his aching root, “do I find a lotus blooming in a sweet lily-white little valley?”

Link cursed.

Gan laughed at him, tapping the flared base and kissing the shaft of his cock again.

“I  _ swear _ I came here only to sing, I just want to be ready for you,” Link moaned.

Gan snorted, tracing a whorl around the edge of the flare. “You think this little bauble will open your rose gates  _ for me-? _ ”

“You said they would-! You  _ said _ that’s what it’s for. Gan  _ please _ don’t make it  _ move _ \- I can’t  _ think _ when you do that.”

“What I  _ said _ was: the use of these jewels is one step closer,” Gan chided him, nipping him and tapping the lotus in rebuke. “Did you think I would not notice your foolish ambitions?”

“ _ No _ \- I mean of course you would notice if - if  _ things _ happened, but they weren’t  _ supposed _ to, I was here to  _ sing _ , I swear it. I just - you _ did say _ I would need to train  _ most faithfully  _ and-”

“Oh, you’ll  _ sing _ alright,” rumbled Gan, rising to his feet. He lifted the magic tethers, and grabbed his hips to force him to pivot. “You  _ might _ want to hold onto something.”

Link groaned a curse. The only thing  _ to _ hold was the pierced wall. Which meant anyone passing through the garden wouldn’t just see vague shadows anymore, should they look up with any greater attention than he had.

“Nervous?” Gan purred in his ear, pressing close.

“No,” Link murmured, grasping the stone lattice.

“Liar,” Gan whispered, sinking his fingers into his hips and tugging him back, proving still further virtues and vices of the ironwood bench. “Tell me how you will sing for me.”

“I can’t - what if someone hears-?”

“So tell me to stop,” taunted Gan, grasping him so very tight and thrusting his hips  _ hard _ .

Link sucked wind through his teeth in shock as the lotus moved inside him, no doubt precisely as Gan intended it to. It was not much comfort to feel silk against his skin. He knew well how the fall-front design Gan preferred could be deceiving. 

“Hn,” said Gan, sliding one hand up his side, under the edge of the completely insufficient silk jacket and down his sweaty back. “Tell me to stop or I shall do  _ such things _ to you, right here, right now, where anyone might see, might hear, might gaze up at you in lust and wonder as you  _ sing _ .”

“Oh Gan,  _ no, _ ” Link gasped, his whole face burning in shame.

“Did you not spare a single tiny moment to consider precisely  _ where _ these sensual baubles might lead you, little hero?”

“Does it have to be  _ here?  _ We haven’t - met in the daylight since - since we came here. I’m not ready,” Link stammered as the telltale tickle of dripping oil followed the heat of Gan’s fingers over his skin. 

“You came here to  _ sing _ , did you not? You came here dressed to be seen, did you not? You came here wearing your new jewel  _ to be ready for me _ did you not? As if such a trifle would  _ ever _ be enough to open you for the Sun’s Thorn,” Gan purred, perfectly wicked. “Tell me to stop.”

“But what if someone  _ does _ see? Won’t there be - trouble?” Link stammered, clinging desperately to the pierced stone lattice wall and likewise to his fraying discipline. He couldn’t solve the puzzle. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t even persuade his beloved to wait for a more discreet moment and nevermind to allow him to present his gift in private, where  _ maybe _ , just maybe, he wouldn’t be so angry. He never wanted to say the secret word ever again. He barely endured the first separation, another would be agony.

“You have already brought a surfeit of  _ trouble _ , little hero. Don’t you think it’s time you  _ made amends? _ ” Gan clawed at his bare skin, pulling his hips back only to slather even more oil down the cleft and all the way past his root to drip down his thighs and tease his mindless cock.

“I don’t want to be trouble for you, I want to make you  _ happy _ jacheli’v,” Link moaned. “Oh you’re pouring too much oil - you’re going to  _ ruin _ these new clothes and then what shall I wear for your birthday? I have nothing else fine!”

“ _ Nothing _ sounds  _ fine _ , my ripe little moon-pear,” teased Gan, drawing his slick hand back through his thighs to slap his ass. “Sa’hakoum I do adore it when you make that noise.”

Link pulled his lip between his teeth and clutched at the stone so hard his knuckles hurt. “ _ Oh _ don’t say that, you  _ know _ what that does to me-!”

“ _ Hnn _ ,” said Gan, slapping him again. And again. And again. Humming in amusement when Link whimpered and fidgeted, caressing the growing heat, only to increase it again. He said little, but every syllable purred, vibrating his mind to absolute mush.

He was pleased.

His king was pleased with him.

His beloved was pleased by the strength of his champion as he struck again, and again, and again.

Link strained to look over his shoulder, shivering to find Gan unbuttoning his sirwal and stroking himself as he caressed the prickly heat he’d kindled with his distaff hand. His good eye was unfocused, and his blind one half-closed. He  _ was _ pleased. He wanted the dangerous games in flesh and in word. He wanted to hear lust in conflict with reason. 

In a way, he really  _ did _ want to hear Link refuse him. 

He wanted a mirror of his own struggles so  _ he _ wouldn’t have to be seen.

And he needed someone strong enough to  _ be _ that mirror for his deepest, darkest pain and never break, so that  _ he _ could remain inviolable, indefatigable, indomitable.

_ The path of the moon moves inward. _

_ He is your moon, reflecting your truths, dancing the tides of body and spirit. _

“It’s a puzzle,” he murmured. “It’s always been a puzzle.”

“Hmnn?” Gan paused, blinking down at him in confusion.

Link swallowed hard. “Jacheli I - how can I ever be sure whether something is truth or mask-? There is no magic lens for  _ words _ .”

“Mm. Inaccurate,” he said, taking his hand from himself to rest both on the small of his back. “The mysteries of the spirit are many and varied. You may not yet have the skill to open your spiriteyes, and the gods are not generous with that gift, reserving the best for sages and kings and their most devoted servants.”

“Sorry,” mumbled Link, genuinely regretful to disturb his mood but thrilling to the enveloping touch all the same.

“Don’t be. I have more than enough for both of us, little hero. Your talents possess a different character, that is all,” he rumbled, leaning close to kiss his shoulder. “You are no less worthy for the balance of your spirit being what it is, instead of what it is not.”

“ _ Oh _ do that again,” Link whispered.

“Hn?”

“We can play the game again in a minute,” Link whispered, savoring the faint tickle of linen against his sweaty skin. “But first I want another like that with you touching my back and -  _ oh _ exactly that. Gan,  _ oh Gan, _ I - I meant to bring you tribute but - but I think I must petition for a bench like this.”

“ _ Oh _ I  _ shall _ take my tribute presently, I think,” Gan purred. He slid one hand around his waist to hold him from above and below at once, kissing his shoulder again, and again, so passionate it nearly masked the drift of his touch.

Nearly.

Gan caressed him with wicked skill, pulling moans and whimpers from his lips again, only this time it was worse because there was  _ even more _ touching. He kept Link pinned in a half-bow against the pierced stone lattice wall, draped over his back with one hand between them to tease the lotus, his teeth and tongue wandering over his neck and shoulder, and  _ also _ teasing his crown with oiled fingers.

“That’s not  _ fair _ ,” Link panted.

Gan nipped at his ear. “Do you want me to stop?”

“Ohhh  _ fuck _ you.”

“Hn. If you’re good,” taunted Gan, shifting his stance to add more pressure from behind.

“I will, I will try, tell me what you want, anything, I will be good.”

“Hnn. Such  _ dangerous _ words, yadaj. Anything is such a  _ very big _ wilderness. One never knows what might become of a lost little hero in such a  _ perilous _ circumstance,” he murmured, punctuating his taunts with little tugs at the lotus bulb.

“I’m not afraid of you,” whispered Link, begging his muscles to relax. If Gan tugged any harder, and the rose gates didn’t yield smoothly enough, he might be angry, or he might stop… or it might hurt.

_ Some find pain interesting. There is power in pain. _

_ You lust for power. _

_ True. _

_ Why is a bauble dangerous? _

_ It can hurt very easily. _

“Maybe you should be,” purred Gan, sliding his hands away to his hips and drawing back to neaten their angles. He laid his heat against the cleft for a moment, as he sometimes did to tease him about his size, and even more rarely to grind against him with his cock trapped between them. Twice he’d even cum like that, pinning Link between his knees and pressing some of his weight into the rolling thrusts safely along that upper valley until he spilled over the small of his back.

“I’m  _ not _ afraid of you, I’m not. I  _ want _ you, gods, you feel  _ so good _ ,” Link moaned. His breath caught against his will as Gan dragged his hips back and made Link rock his own up. His burning crown slipped and slid through the oil, slowly down the valley, lower than ever before.

“Tell me to stop,” whispered Gan, as his cock caught against the faceted lotus base.

Link struggled to push the worry past his teeth. “Are - you going to steal it with magic-?”

Gan exhaled slowly. “Do you want me to-?”

“I - don’t know,” Link confessed.

Gan grunted, drawing back. “Not good enough.”

“No -  _ no. _ Don’t stop, please, I just - it’s hard to think,” Link begged. “You’ve never magicked it out before and this one is still new, I just need a minute to  _ think _ .”

“Maybe I don’t want you to  _ think _ ,” Gan grumbled, tapping his hip. “Thighs together. Tight.  _ Tighter _ .”

Link sighed. He obeyed. Even though that made it even harder to relax his rose. He was growing so tired of puzzles. “I  _ do _ want to make you happy. I’m  _ not _ afraid. It’s just  _ new _ . New is  _ hard _ sometimes.”

“I’ll show you  _ hard _ ,” Gan grumbled at him, smacking his ass again.

Link yelped at the unexpected shock.

“Hn,” said Gan, settling his shaft upon the valley again. But He didn’t bow. He didnt cup a hand over. He didn’t grind. He just teased a little, and slid a hand up his spine to make him bow a little lower. He let his crown slip low again. He slapped his ass again and slid his broad palm over the warmth - and under the curve of muscle to press against his thighs - and to guide his heavy thorn as it dragged over the lotus base and past it to push heat against his oiled thighs.  _ Between _ his thighs. Against his root. Prodding at his aching sack. Slipping through oil and sweat. Tighter. Hotter. Thicker.

He was enormous.

He was throbbing.

He was breathing hard as he rolled through longer and longer thrusts.

He was reaching to cup his sex and draw him aside.

He was delving past and his crown was dragging against his sack and he had never known anything so hot that wasn’t  _ literally _ fire.

Link was pretty sure Gan was laughing at him.

To be fair, his attempts to swear  _ were _ falling from his tongue in nonsense pieces.

He pulled back slowly. He caressed Link’s cock. He plunged back between his thighs without warning and stroked his fist back to match. The blades of his hips hit sharp and solid, and the jarring force made the thick lotus bulb jostle inside him. His muscles tightened against his will, and it  _ hurt _ , but it was also  _ so good _ .

_ Some find pain interesting. _

Gan shifted his hands as he ground closer still, cradling his cock tight up against him. His hands enveloped them both. He rolled through a few tentative, testing thrusts, and the strange slippery heat against the lowest curve of him near the base made Link gasp and shudder. 

He had never imagined such a thing possible.

“Oh  _ yes _ my king,” Link cried when he lengthened the stroke.

“Hn,” said Gan, a bit of raspiness in his voice. “So about that  _ song _ .”

“Oh  _ fuck _ you wretched -  _ oh yes, _ goddess that makes it -  _ unf _ , how could you?”

Gan thrust against him again, exhaling harshly. “Stop?”

“ _ Fuck no, _ ” Link cried.

Gan snorted, bowing lower as he pulled back. He adjusted his grasp to tease him as he retreated, and slid back into the shared tightness smooth and elegant as anything. His breath bloomed heat across his back. “Sing for me.”

“I  _ can’t _ , oh I can’t even breathe -  _ oh gods _ \- how can this be so good and so terrible, you wretched -  _ oh blessed light _ \- you tease, you tormentor!”

“Such compliments,” Gan rumbled, though there was a breathy thinness to it. “Sing for me, little hero.”

Link moaned in lust and despair.

Gan laughed.

Link clung desperately to the stone and prayed as his king stole what was left of his reason. A tiny part of him knew he would hurt in the morning from wearing a bulb too long after his body tried to reject it. A shard of him cautioned that he must  _ never _ reveal that weakness until he’d long since overcome it. A fragment deep in the shadows whispered that it would be even worse when the thrust and slide and jolt and presence merged into one, and Gan gave him the truth instead of the mask.

But the mask was intoxicating.

He lost those last few threads of thought when Gan began stroking them together more urgently, pushing and keeping his hips so hard up against him Link’s knees threatened to surrender and spill them both into the safflina.

“Sing for me, oh  _ sing _ , I want you, want you to  _ sing _ ,” Gan panted against his back, over and over between unintelligible curses and maybe other things.

Maybe intoxicating was not a strong enough word.

Gan growled when he came, grunting and huffing like a beast.

Link came the second time as he wallowed in the glorious sound of his king’s body confessing pleasure.

Gan untangled himself slowly, rolling their spent seed between his fingers.

Link clung to the wall, helpless and breathless and dripping with oil and seed, watching his beloved king over his shoulder.

“Hn,” said Gan, eyes crinkling. He licked his fingers ostentatiously as he tugged his sirwal back into order.

“ _ Wicked man _ ,” panted Link.

Gan shrugged, licking the last drop from his thumb suggestively. “The Great Ganondorf, King of Evil. Demon thief.”

“Fuck you,” groaned Link, begging his bones to have mercy and let him stand properly.

“So soon?” Gan returned with transparently false innocence. “You know you should  _ probably _ dress yourself before  _ someone _ happens to see you like that and decides to steal a lusty handful of delicate Hylian ass.”

“No one’s come yet,” Link sighed. 

“ _ Really, _ ” Gan drawled, perfectly wicked. “ _ No one at all. _ ”

Link pushed against the wall and tried to haul his attention to the task. He swore when he beheld the sorry state of the bright goldenrod-and-honey silk, sodden and surely irreparably stained with the evidence of their entanglement.

Gan chuckled darkly, leaning against one of the canopy support poles. The amberwood cittern appeared in his relatively clean hand.

Link swore louder.

Gan  _ laughed _ .


	27. Gentleness - 12 of ?

Autumn touched the golden lands lightly. Most of the wooded parts of the highlands were evergreens, and the gnarled taobob and kamhia trees didn’t change colors any more than the oasis palms. The wild and rugged grains in the Gerudo homeland were really only  _ green _ in the first blush of their growth, and began to shift toward gold soon after solstice, where in Hyrule and Termina, Farore turned her cloak green and red and gold in a dramatic flourish from vernal equinox through first frost. Routines and menus changed in subtle ways as late summer harvests ripened. The artisans hurried to finish dying all the wool that was scoured during the spring flood season, to seal away dried flax and sun-crown leaves, and to beat the sodden mush from the shrunken retting ponds one last time. The growth-tenders culled and shredded all excess, tying scraps of bright rags and stripping leaves from branches marked for winter pruning.

And in the courts of the Palace of Stairs, hundreds of drying frames crowded everywhere, laden with ripe coffee cherries.

Link dragged himself from bed well after dawn drills with the phantom taste of coffee on his tongue already. In the halls of the Elite in the central palace, the Kharish on duty would always have strong spiced tea, fresh bread, stewed and honeyed fruit, and spirit-stoves ready for preparing the bold and velvety potion favored by the southern tribes. Three years living and traveling in the golden country taught him how central was the dance of night and day to all the Geld’o, and how different the nature of their seasons. It would take a lifetime to really  _ understand _ them, and how deeply the challenges of their diverse homeland affected their philosophy - but he was finally beginning to  _ feel _ the rhythm of desert life. 

After the first summer following the battle, Ganondorf resumed what Nialet assured him was old habit, moving in a circuit among the tribes, though building gates to shorten their road and make their progress harder to predict drained Gan’s magic much more deeply than it used to. Eiju traveled with them. Link’s education continued under her guiding hand with the help of master artisans and warriors and scholars and artists everywhere they went. He soon missed the warmth of Varesh and the sharp insight of Nialet. Exchanging short letters by magic or trained roc just wasn’t the same.

Ganondorf settled in the Golden Fortress that first winter, if one stretched the word enormously. In truth he pushed himself in training his new colt and riding frequently to the smaller eastern Davayu estate to coddle Zharu, who managed to get herself in foal over that summer. Hylian messengers came and went, never with anything substantial beyond complaints of blin activity and obstructive, undisciplined behavior in the Golden Legions who continued to secure the roads and taxes under the nominal authority of the Hylian crown.

Ganondorf responded in the same manner every time: polite sympathy for Zelda’s difficulties, a reprimand to the demonkin, a vague promise of censure for the eastern Rocs, and a reminder that he could be of greater assistance to the queen and her armies and council when  _ certain contracts _ were fulfilled. When they moved to the Palace of Fountains for the early spring, Zelda finally agreed to propose a vague ‘closer alliance’ to her council.

Link tried to be optimistic, though three years of negotiations seemed to move them nowhere at all. Not that he  _ wanted _ to surrender even more time with his beloved king, but true peace was more important than his own selfish longing. If Zelda finally agreed to the pomp and ceremony of state marriage to bring both their countries into prosperity after centuries of war, he would stand beside his king and endeavor to be happy about it.

Link shook himself out of the hazy abstraction and tugged a comb through his hair so he could settle the platinum-and-fire-opal circlet and matching jeweled queue band properly in place. He shrugged into the matching chimera-weave silk jacket with silver ribbon embroidered at cuff and collar and slung the tooled axe harness over it. He could  _ not _ go to the Hall of the Elite in a  _ palace _ half-dressed unless they were under attack by Hylian vagabonds or rogue blin. He tried to persuade himself the bold vigor of the coffee they made in the southern estates and palaces made up for the greater rigidity of custom.

Here, the Champion was still an Outsider.

If he  _ had _ to arm himself first thing in the morning he would have preferred a sword. Any sword. Even when he carried two-handers in a back harness in other lives, he wore a smaller blade at his right hip, always. He felt strange without it, but the honor knife among the Gerudo was worn at the small of the back and the curved rocs’ talons were carried in the hand, a back harness, or slung  _ very _ low. Carrying a Hylian arming sword instead would be seen as an insult here.

The weaponsmaster would glare and someone would say  _ something _ about the bad example he set for the younger warriors when they thought he couldn’t hear them. It was always harder to sleep alone, especially within a couple days of Gan coming to him, and even harder as autumn and his Awakening Day approached, and therefore ever more difficult to persuade himself  _ out _ of bed once he found any sleep at all.

Nialet would have understood. Varesh would have been sympathetic.

Gan would say nothing unless he spoke first.

Which he wouldn’t. 

Link already knew his king would remind him the Champion’s Axe and adamant dragonscale mail gave him precedence among the Elite. That he  _ could _ exercise the rights of a Champion and join him in the dorviru’heiat at the various estates. That in a palace he  _ could _ move to a private chamber  _ in _ the royal suite, displacing one of the otherwise rotated personal guard, sharing a small common lounge, workroom, and necessities with Gan’s valet and secretary. That he  _ could _ accept more of the ancient and reconstructed regalia of the Exalted Moon and publicly enjoy all the privileges of the title wherever they went.

Link didn’t want to fight about it again.

He sat alone on a tall, high-backed bench by a window in the Hall of the Elite, overlooking a courtyard which was probably designed for martial drills but for another three months would be packed with flats of drying coffee cherries as the harvest was brought in and rotated. For the first time in centuries, the people had time and labor available to coax  _ bounty _ from their harsh land. 

_ Three years of bringing rain. The lord of storms nourishes the flower of prosperity. People look at him as though he’s ascended even higher than before. Everyone wants to see him, touch him, have a little of his glory and magic rub off on them. Like he’s not just a powerful king anymore. The miraculous flourishing of this country since the battle in the spirit gate has these women thinking he's halfway to being a god. _

_ His pride needs no such help. _

A shy Kharish brought him a bright brass tray of coffee and fried dumplings rolled in spicebark and sugar. A few of the off-duty Elite stared openly, and the Kharish and Ramal whispered to each other. 

Yadaj chadali rose  _ hours _ late, spoke to no one, and dawdled over coffee instead of doing  _ any _ of the things he was supposed to.

_ But what, really, is the point? Why should I keep training to serve him as Exalted when anyone can see I am barely halfway tolerable at all the things a yadaj is, and nevermind the kind of advisor he wants me to be. And if the Hylian Council finds out I serve him in bed also, they might refuse to approve the marriage, which would shatter the alliance. _

_ It is easier to hide my love when we sleep apart. _

_ It is easier to believe his intimate petitions are about duty and magic and casual pleasures when I don’t have to  _ **_see_ ** _ him prepare for them, welcome them,  _ **_kiss_ ** _ them. _

_ It is easier to believe what I give him is special if he must come to my room to get it. _

_ But he is coming for me less and less often. He didn’t even ask me to come to the royal wing this time, only if I wanted the same room as before. He hasn’t tried to persuade me to change my place  _ **_after_ ** _ we’ve settled somewhere in half a year. _

Link sighed, and set aside his coffee. He couldn’t taste it anyway. 

“You are unhappy here,” rumbled Gan from behind him.

Link swore.

Gan stood a few feet behind his bench, ostensibly gazing out a different window, hands folded behind his back. He’d draped his black roc’s wing caftan over a high-necked black kurta embroidered with the gods’ teeth in gold. He wore golden sirwal with the gods’ teeth in black tucked into the stock of his polished black riding boots. He rarely wore fitted garments outside a festival anymore, and  _ never _ boiled leather armor like before, only city clothes or blue-black gilded steel plate unlike anything Hylian knights or the Golden Legions’ Elite wore. He'd chosen the Thunder Crown this time, according to whatever inscrutable logic guided his decisions, the hoop ornament anchored on a much smaller chignon than it was really meant for. It would be many years before his hair grew out enough for elaborate styles again, and he refused to weave in festival curls or false braids like most of his people would when they wanted to be especially fancy. 

However he came into the room so silently, no one else remained but them. 

“Three years ago today,” Ganondorf rumbled softly, “I found the sealed passageway under Hyrule Castle.”

“And six days later, you found the place where I awakened. I  _ know _ what day it is,” Link grumbled, slouching down into the corner of the bench.

Gan grunted. “It is doubtless a difficult memory for you, surrendering consciousness in a peaceful world only to be thrust into the ugliness of this one.”

_ That’s not what makes this season hard.  _ “I thought you had a council meeting today.”

Gan shrugged. “I did. Now I do not.”

Link swore.

Gan continued to stare out the window, his good eye pinned against the bright day. “Do you wish to return home to Hyrule, yadaj?”

“Are you sending me away?” Link stammered, his face burning with shame.

Gan did not turn. His soft rumble offered no inflection of emotion whatever. “Do you want me to?”

Link struggled to keep his voice even a third as neutral, his throat tight. “Do you need me to take a message to Zelda?”

Gan shrugged. “Not particularly. I could invent one for you, if that would smooth your path. Would you prefer an escort or a simple remount str-”

“I would  _ prefer _ not to go at all-!”

Gan raised a brow, otherwise unmoved by his shout.

“Enough of riddles,” growled Link, standing on the bench and glaring at him. “What is this about? What’s going on? Why are you sending me away six days before a festival? What are you planning rajena’v?”

For several moments, Gan said nothing. He still did not turn, but rumbled softly at the window: “You are unhappy here.”

“Since when has that ever mattered?” Link snapped.

“If you still cannot see that it always has, there is nothing I can say which will persuade you to do so now,” said Ganondorf, precise and cool. “Our spirits are bound across lives by fate, by circumstance, by what has been woven. You are the Hero, as I am the King. Those truths do not change for details of mundane circumstance. You  _ are _ the Exalted Moon whether you choose to live as tradition and poetry say other Exalted have done before you or not. I desire that you have every opportunity to learn and master any art of interest to you, but it does not follow that you  _ must _ continue your studies if their purpose is no longer of interest or use to you.”

Link dragged a hand over his face, struggling to keep his legs under him. “You - don’t want me here anymore. The stupid Hylian is an embarrassment to you, a drain on your people, a liability in your negotiations and politics and-”

“That is not what I said,” cut in Ganondorf, still detached and cold. “It is important you understand you are not a slave to your Name or to me. You are not happy here, and you have not  _ been _ happy here in some time.”

“The  _ where _ has nothing to do with it,” mumbled Link, sinking back down into the bench. “All I knew about moons before you took me to that Karsooda Davayu estate in the far westlands is they  _ fall _ . And now  _ I _ am so fallen in your regard you  _ banish _ me-”

“That is  _ not _ what I said,” Gan countered, pivoting sharply. “Nor has this anything to do with you  _ falling _ anywhere-”

“No, of course not, I was already so far beneath the Great King I-”

“ _ Shut up, _ ” Gan snapped, his boots click-thumping aggressively loud as he stalked closer, circling the bench. Late morning light flattered his strong features and sparkled on his many ornaments. He wore tiny blue topaz hairpins to secure crown and coiffure, and scattered on tiny golden bails anchored directly in the soft floof of his bright sideburns. “I have humored your quicksilver moods and allowed you the  _ time _ you petitioned for, and after  _ three years _ my patience wears thin, little hero. What do you want of this life? Speak plainly.”

“ _ You _ never do!”

“I am king! No word woven on my tongue is  _ ever _ idle or fruitless. Whatsoever I will,  _ becomes _ . If three years is not enough to teach you to  _ use _ those long ears, I cannot imagine any mortal scholar capable of the feat,” he sneered. His good eye blazed with fury. The blind one drooped still. Indeed his entire expression pulled askew, as if his right side was slower and weaker in answering his command.

His boots didn’t strike with the same sound left to right, either. 

Link frowned. “Let me see your hands.”

“I will not abide distractions.”

“It will help me think. You know words are still hard for me,” said Link, calm as possible. He held out his own empty hands in invitation, and waited, closing the door between his wretchedness and himself.

Gan huffed and growled under his breath, pacing between the window and the corridor made by rows of benches. The voluminous cloth of his sirwal and caftan smoothed the subtle asymmetry in his stride. The lumenstone cosmetics painted bolder strokes than usual, veiling his entire right eyelid in the thick paste and trailing down his sharp cheek in complex filigree that swept back into his bright, full sideburns. To a glance, even in daylight the bold asymmetry of the design pulled attention away from the asymmetry of his features, and partly disguised the droop of his blind eye. In darkness, the subtle crookedness of his expression would hardly be visible at all, and the luminescent paint would make his closed eye glow even brighter than the good.

Link waited, watching his king. He wondered when this flare began, if it struck only this morning or days ago. He felt sure he’d have noticed the return of any tremors - or Gan’s efforts to hide the same - if he was already suffering the last time they met.

Gan stalked back through another circuit and thrust his hands out impatiently, as one of his many children might display their empty hands to ‘prove’ their innocence of some kitchen theft. His black fingerless gloves came lower than the most popular Gerudo style, stretching to the first knuckle, and ending somewhere just above his wrist, hidden under the cuff of his kurta, where most of his people wore theirs so long they were basically sleeves that secured to bangles and arm cuffs instead of a bodice. Most warriors preferred kidskin as Gan did, and many ornamented their festival gloves in the way Gan stitched gold and topaz to almost all of his. 

Link rested his fingertips in the hollows of Gan’s palms, careful not to let bare skin touch. He  _ wanted _ to, but when Gan was in poor temper, he always kept his own hands over silk and leather when he touched anyone at all, and Link mirrored him. It was strange, how he spoke of the skin-hunger when they were alone on the gentle nights, and yet he avoided even accidentally brushing against anyone.

Moments slid past, and Gan held himself rigid with immense discipline. Nonetheless, faint shifts of tension under his gloves betrayed the tremors he strove to hide. He never spoke of them, so no one else did either. Most of the time they were too subtle to see anyway, and if a finger twitched without his command, he was adept at masking it as part of another gesture and finding a new way to arrange his hands out of sight or at least braced against the battle under his skin. He surely knew that  _ Link _ knew, but he hated weakness of any kind.

So Link  _ also _ held his tongue, lest his king withdraw his touch even further and deny him any way of measuring the health of his beloved.

“Vo’rajena. What I  _ want _ more than anything is to walk in the Sun’s Ray. It doesn’t matter to me  _ where _ the light moves, so long as I am with it. If it pleases you to decree a festival for that day, then I will celebrate also, but for your happiness in the revelry, not for the  _ day _ .”

Gan pushed a harsh breath through his nose - but at least he didn’t draw away yet. 

“It is as you say: I’m  _ not _ happy here, but not because of the palace or the season. My tongue still shapes the words wrongly after _ three years _ , and  _ that _ is the  _ smallest _ art of which a proper yadaj should be master,” Link confessed with a sigh, curling his fingers closer, a thin and flickering shadow of the embrace he craved.

“Who  _ dares _ to-”

“ _ I do, _ ” Link interrupted before he could build any more momentum in his roar. “L’vaisa Nialet was wise, and my ears run  _ far _ ahead of my tongue. I can  _ hear _ wrongnesses now, but that isn’t enough if I can’t correct them.”

Gan grunted in displeasure, drawing his hands away to fold them behind his back. A sure sign the tremors were spiking. “The most difficult of students is the master. Your valor, experience, and grace in so many arts of war feeds your impatience… and more so  _ after _ k’crytia than before.”

Link sighed, tucking his thumbs in his sash to stave off the temptation to fidget. “I think so, yes.  _ Please _ don’t forbid it though - it’s a hundred times worse if I don’t drill at all for more than a few days unless we’re riding somewhere.”

“Not  _ forbidden _ \- merely a different pattern. Come, to the armory. My collection here is the largest, and I am interested to hear your opinions on some of the antiquities.”

“Can I finish my coffee first?”

“Hn. Of course,” said Gan, offering a little sardonic grin. “It is, after all, a sin to waste.”

Scarred ironwood bit into his skin, dimpling and maybe seeding splinters he would curse later. He could shift, he could rub away the ache, he could have thought ahead and stripped off his jacket to kneel on. His shoulders ached, and he would be hoarse for at least a day.

It was worth it.

Such discomforts dwindled to minor pinprick annoyances, and vanished entirely as he reduced the proud king to a swearing, shivering mess.

Wood creaked as Ganondorf pulled against the heavy support post behind him, panting and gasping as his flesh surrendered glorious and irrefutable evidence of pleasure. Link stroked his right hand over flesh and silk, cradling his beloved king as deep as he could bear. He drew a tight whorl within his rose to make him cry out again, high and sharp. He narrowed his focus to shifting the pressure of his tongue against heat and fullness, on keeping his throat open and soft. His chest began to hurt - but Ganondorf’s thighs were trembling, and what was air to the heady ecstasy of victory? Stronger even than the rich thrill of having  _ purpose _ again, triumph flooded him with the elusive sense of  _ rightness _ .

Ganondorf babbled curses to the heavy blackened beams, slurring and rasping and broken.  _ Maybe _ he spoke truth twenty minutes ago when he swore he didn’t lure his Champion into a labyrinth of priceless blades for a tryst, but he rarely  _ admitted _ desire of any kind. Other people thought he did - but Nialet and Varesh had confessed to him they did not always  _ know _ when their king commanded from his heart of hearts, or to fulfill or correct a pattern he saw already begun in another, or for some ineffable Great Pattern only his spirit eye could behold.

Link flinched away from the thought, from the memory, from the perpetual grief lurking under the surface of every moment like a vengeful River Zora.

Ganondorf drew a sharp, hissing breath.

His ears burned in shame. He wrestled his mind back to the moment, perfecting his focus so he could pull back without inflicting further pain. Ganondorf said it was so minor it didn’t matter, that the too-frequent accidents with hands and teeth were merely startling, and of no true significance whatever. He claimed he couldn’t even feel the darkened marks that often lingered after those little moments when the mind of  _ yadaj _ slipped into the darkness.

Link tried to think only of the salty-sour silken heat of his king’s throbbing cock sliding off his tongue. 

_ Flesh cannot lie. _

_ He is pleased. _

_ I did good. _

Ganondorf groaned, dropping his weight against the heavy post at his back. He kept his chin tucked against his left shoulder, hiding his good eye. As he so often did when they lay together. His manner in their stolen moments was so  _ different _ from how he immersed himself in festival revelry as the burning sun, indefatigable and overflowing with dazzling life.

Link forced himself to draw breath deep and slow, offering little kisses on his slick sex that made his king twitch and hiss as he withdrew his left hand from the hidden delights of his tight, throbbing rose.

“Hero. This is not,” grumbled Gan, valiantly pretending he paused for drama and not for breath, “what I  _ meant _ when I told you to  _ pick a sword _ .”

Link laughed, caressing his thigh. His tired tongue ran away with him. “I miss hearing your grumpy thunder.”

“Hn?”

Link sighed at himself and swore under his breath as he helped his king reassemble his disheveled silks. “I hate words. I mean - things like this. The challenge of not getting caught is - I  _ like _ puzzles and contests, yeah? So that’s kinda fun, but more so that it’s _ just us _ again. Like it was before everything else. When you’d be grumpy about my cooking while you licked your spoon, or fuss about staining the blankets or something.”

“You indulge the strangest sentiments,” rumbled Gan, peeling his hands off the support post. He cracked his knuckles. He rolled his wrists. In silence he told how fiercely he pulled against the wood, making pretend to struggle against bindings that existed nowhere but his own secret heart while his champion took him into his mouth. In his quiet nonchalance he confessed his craving for the games of power and force. Again. Always.

“When was the last time we met  _ without _ ,” Link muttered, half to himself, his victory turning sour on his tongue. He wished he’d chosen a bauble when he rose from bedroom there would be a chance of stretching out the little oasis just to a single full hour. 

Gan coughed, shooing his hands away from the complicated buttons of the fall-front sirwal. “Without  _ what? _ ”

Link winced, rocking back on his heels to watch how Gan managed the fastening so fluidly. “Nothing. Just - you’re always busy, and there’s always people.”

“Hn. There are few petitions that require… urgent attention, but preparing for your Awakening Day-”

“Don’t make it any fancier for  _ me _ ,” countered Link, turning as he unfolded his stiff knees. “My only care in all that is helping you drink magic.”

“Your last performance would suggest otherwise,” he countered with a sardonic grin.

Link scrubbed a hand over his face and pushed back against the stirring little memory. He rarely asked their names, but Aidya seemed - different somehow. Softer. She was body-shy, and drew him away from the solstice revelry to the shadows under the grand stairs. She touched his face and held him close, and she wanted him to hold her in turn. Aidya wanted a festival child from the last solstice, but she was afraid of the Sun’s Thorn. She had never lain with a man before, and she was frightened. Her sisters had teased her mercilessly about what it would be like, how savage and painful the first thrust - and how much worse they became as the rutting roused the most base essence of a man to draw his vitality forth. They told her men lost their reason even worse than a stallion, especially with the lure of a figure like hers. Like Varesh, she covered her skin more than her sisters, embarrassed by old scars and her ample flesh. They said when the king he saw her heavy breasts bared and swaying he would surely consume her.

So she chose the yadajititu.

He spent  _ hours _ with her, apart from the other revelers. He touched her slowly, exploring every rise and hollow to teach her the truths he knew, as Gan had once taught him to learn the shape of  _ his _ body. He gave her reflections of ancient memories, and he recited for her the gentlest lessons he’d learned since his Awakening. When they joined at last, it was Aidya who pulled at him to plunge deeper and swifter, and it was  _ Aidya _ who was not sated by one dance. He could have happily curled up in her embrace till dawn, but she sent him back to the festival when she started yawning.

He didn’t remember very much after that, except the wine.

“Hn,” said Gan. He brushed his garments smooth. His hands and stance seemed steadier than before.

Link sighed, pushing to his feet and tugging his jacket and axe harness back into order.  _ He _ didn’t feel steady, but he could hardly complain of a numb limb before the unassailable strength of his proud king. “She was  _ soft _ , ok? I miss that. As terrible as everything else had to be on the push west - and I don’t wish for more of that! - I think of the time we had, inside the song, just us, and I am sorry the soft ended when we went into the storm.”

Ganondorf grunted. “Tomorrow, you will dance with the pole-sword, and spar with the rahallin kesh until you have the feel of all eight patterns. Come to the upper fountain court afterwards, and we will speak of your petition.”

Link frowned up at him in confusion.

Gan smirked down at him and gestured to a rack of pole-mounted blades in dozens of different lengths and styles. “You may wish to try their weight and balance before morning.”

Which meant  _ you are dismissed. _ Link saluted as the Gerudo warriors did.

“Hn,” said Ganondorf. His roc’s wing caftan whispered slithery taunts as he stalked down the aisle and out of the armory.

Link kicked over a bench and two racks of pikes and halberds and spears accidentally on purpose, and spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning it up.

Tart-sweet apple wine closed his throat with regret and shame. Link could not enjoy the taste when every sip made his heart ache. He tried to listen to the scholar in her fancy blue and silver caftan, but he could not make his mind pull away from the sharp awareness of the rare and  _ expensive _ wine in his cup. Gan said nothing about it, serving his champion with the same nonchalance as if he poured an everyday majir.

Apples did not grow in the golden lands. Not even in the highlands. 

There was no escaping the consciousness of the gift, just as there was no possibility of acknowledging it when his king did not. Gan did not  _ see _ it as anything significant or sentimental, therefore no marked attachment could be woven from it. He did nothing without purpose - with one extravagant detail he made explicitly clear his Champion remained in his favor - and his lover remained an open secret.

Eiju sighed and swore, sitting back into the bench without grace. “ _ Yadaj. _ ”

“I’m listening, avadha.” Link lied, hiding his blush in another sip of wine. “The forbidden desert is infested with molduga, and the necropolis under the dunes with moldorm. I haven’t hunted the first yet, but I remember the weak places on the other. I’m happy to help. I rather miss hunting.”

“You will soon miss civilization,” she snapped. “It’s nearly a month’s journey  _ with _ the Sun’s Ray offering as many gates as a normal horse can safely endure. The closest full garrison is  _ Risoka _ . Do you understand? Toruma is called a wasteland for good reason. With a remount string of  _ four _ you will be hard pressed to carry enough provisions to support a  _ week _ in the fabled ruins, and that’s if everything goes perfectly,  _ and _ every blin tribe on the route honors the mark of His favor. There are a  _ thousand _ other roads into the Sands to seek the wisdom of the Lady. Just because  _ one _ legend of the First Exalted mentions the forbidden temple does not signify that  _ you _ must go  _ there _ to walk your spirit roads, yadaj.”

Link frowned. He couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t expose how little attention he’d given to her words.

“Hn,” said Ganondorf, leaning lazily against a smooth column exactly the color of fresh buttermilk, complete with elegant speckles of rust-red like nutmeg and spicebark adorning the surface of that rich drink reserved by tradition for avadha seeking to become amali. “The true cry of the spirit can be accepted or refused, honored or insulted, but it cannot be changed. Vo’yadaj has dreamed more than once of the Great Pattern in the lost Temple of Lanaryu. It is more than time that he should be prepared to answer that cry.”

Eiju groaned, and submitted to his will with more-or-less correct ritual.

Ganondorf chose not to see her grudging manner, therefore it did not exist at all.

Link endeavored to listen more closely to her lecture about Toruma - more than half of which was conjecture and myth. Yet Ganondorf had once spoken of it as if he’d been there. It didn’t make sense why he would call Eiju to lecture on a subject he surely knew a hundred times better - much less why he’d bother to listen to it also.

When Ganondorf finished his cup of wine, he returned his gilded cup to the tray and gestured for Eiju to finish her lecture and leave. He was rarely so direct, even with servants. He said nothing, but walked away to brood over the gardens below. Once the scholar left, Link dared to approach his quiet king. His knuckles were ashen from gripping the stucco half-wall too hard, and the veins on the side of his neck stood out in worrisome sharpness.

“How long?” Link murmured.

Gan shrugged. “It is a storm upon the eastern winds, moving whensoever it pleases.”

Which meant  _ it’s been worsening for weeks _ .

“Two more days to festival,” said Link quietly, reaching to lay his hand on the rough stucco beside his king’s. “It will help.”

“Hn,” said Ganondorf.

“Would it help to - begin early?”

Gan raised a brow. “Hungry, little hero?”

Link clenched his jaw and tried not to think about how his ears burned. “If it will raise more mgic to strengthen my king, I shall feast until I-”

“Beware the wicked oath,” cut in Gan with a sardonic grin.

Link sighed. He too looked down at the garden, and the many flats of bright coffee cherries. “Is there something you want me to find in Toruma? Something that might help the light tremors? Is there a medicine that needs molduga hearts or-?”

Gan twitched his chin in a spare and silent  _ no _ . “The spiritwinds suggest  _ perhaps _ in the next month, the moon will shine favorably upon those ruins. We missed meeting the full moon there three years ago. Perhaps it is time to remedy that.”

“What about the council? The alliance? The be- negotiations?” Link tried to pretend he didn’t choke on the word, but he was certain Gan noticed anyway.

Not that he chose to see it. “I am king. They can wait.”

The Awakening Festival began under two lanterns with a feast of roast venison and Hylian apples and stuffed sparkshrooms and soft flatbread heaped with toasted cheese curds as it always did. Ganondorf wore black and gold as always, the only remarkable thing about his appearance at all was his choice of the serpent crown and wearing his hair unbound. 

In the fourth hour of the festival, Gan formally summoned his Champion, as always, and at his right hand stood a gilded chest, as always. The first year, it was the heavy double-sided Champion’s Axe. The second year, it was a long corselet of silvery scale mail made to his measure much in the style of the Rocs’ golden armor - and the enchanted Iron Knuckles’ endarkened form.

This year, it was a creamy lambswool mantle woven with the sacred gods’ teeth pattern and a single jeweled gauntlet.

Ganondorf boomed a line of ancient poetry into the awed hush which washed over the room when he put it on. Link missed most of the words in his distracted study of the ancient yet familiar relic on his right hand. He just barely managed to bow properly as the women hailed him with one voice:

_ Vo’hei Onchali yadaj chadali - kesh i zinah i heiat vo’Onchali! _

His king kissed his brow in front of everyone.

Link wondered afterward if there was magic on his lips, for he felt as dizzy from that tiny benediction as from half a dozen glasses of ansu’raj.

Music blossomed, wine overflowed every cup, and at nadir as the lamps of the day burned low, the fourth green lantern burned.

The revelry stretched well into the night of the second day.

Link sat at Ganondorf’s right hand through the quiet evening feast on the third day, wondering how many of the women who avoided his eye in the light had come to them in the dark. Somehow, given the way they worshipped their king, especially in the southern tribes, he expected them to gloat or brag, or else seek to cling to them for more attention. 

He couldn’t even guess whether the women who avoided his gaze did so because they were embarrassed they’d taken part in the festival - or because they  _ hadn’t _ . 

He was surprised to find his formal elevation to Onchali changed very little else about the pattern of his days. He decided the women must have been treating him as an Exalted all along.

On the seventh sleepless night, the nagging familiarity of the Moon’s Fist drove him to use the rune inside him. He searched the caches in his tomb for hours, only to find the match to his relic in the gilded blue glass casket, nearly hidden by the vast cloak of tesselated spirals in the colors of field and forest.

He returned to his rooms to find Ganondorf waiting for him, still dressed as he was at dinner, enthroned on his simple bed. His golden eye rested too long on the bright gauntlets. His lips thinned. He said nothing.

Link knelt in full formal salute. He couldn’t find any words for the ache in his heart either. He knew he  _ should _ be happy to have purpose and be held in such high regard by the Gerudo people.

“An honored hero should travel with a proper escort - and ancient art is best appreciated with the proper context of history and poetry which gave rise to it and flow from it.”

“Yes, my king,” said Link softly, hoping he had the inflection right.

Gan drew a sharp breath, and the chime of his jewelry betrayed movement. He looked away, hiding his good eye. “I do not command it. If you would prefer to travel alone, I will transcribe an extract of my own notes into Old Hylian for you. I misdoubt the wild creatures will give you any true contest, Onchali.”

“Will you  _ never _ say my name anymore?” Link’s tongue demanded without asking him first. His heart stole his wind and spat more pain before he could chain it up again. “I can’t even  _ remember _ the last time. Or should I go sleep in the armory with all your other trophies?”

“ _ Hero- _ ” Ganondorf began, but though his lips still moved, no other sound came to his tongue.

“If you want me to go to Toruma, I will go. Tell me what you’re looking for, and I will find it. I know how badly you wanted to find the old relics - I swear I didn’t hide this on purpose. If you’d told me what the Moon’s Fist  _ was _ three years ago, I’d have gone  _ at once _ to bring this to you,” said Link, gesturing to the left gauntlet he was buried with. “You’re right, I don’t know history, and I’m not smart. I knew the one you gave me looked familiar, but it was only tonight I remembered I once had magic gauntlets and wondered if they were like this. I didn’t know it was a match. I haven’t been back to that place since the battle. I don’t know what it means - all I remember is finding them somewhere dark and musty, and afterwards… I don’t know. Light, and pain, but not body-pain. Maybe I will remember more later.”

Gan shook his head a little. He licked his lips, and raised his gaze to stare a hole in the wall. His voice seemed rough as he tried to lower his resonant voice. “Three years ago tomorrow night, I promised to teach you full purification rites. I never did. The pattern was - broken. And I did not... weave a new one. There was always something more urgent.”

Link sighed. “It’s ok-”

“It is not,” interrupted Gan crisply. “We leave at first light. There is a suitable oasis  _ exactly _ one day’s ride northwest.”

“We?”

Ganondorf turned, his golden eye sharp and steady. “I command it.”

Link sighed, and bowed, fist over heart.

When he looked up again, Ganondorf was gone. 

The spice of his scent and the divots in the wool mattress were the only evidence he left of having come at all.

Dawn intruded all too early, and with it three brusque Ramal who were remarkably indifferent to his displeasure. On the order of their king they stripped his room with perfect efficiency. They bundled his laundry, his weapons, and himself out the door and down to the courtyard faster than his mind could untangle anything at all. Ganondorf was of course already dressed, crowned, mantled and mounted on a massive horse Link had never seen before. The mare was the darkest of dark bays, except for a skewed blaze and one white sock.

The Ramal gave him a gray horse so light she was  _ almost _ white through the body, shading toward stormcloud gray down her legs and towards her dark nose. She didn’t much care for dawn any more than he did, and the last thing in the world she wanted was to carry him anywhere.

At least keeping her in hand gave him something to do.

The ride remained silent beyond the barest necessities until twilight. 

“When the oasis comes into sight, strip off your mantle and lay it across her withers,” said Ganondorf over his shoulder with no preamble whatever. “Then sash. Then jacket. And so on. The estate here is small - only when you hear the horns will you throw it all onto the sands, and with every step thereafter another piece. Everything but jewels. Dismount and strip her tack when you pull within eight rods.”

“And then?”  _ Where will you be? _

“You will have noticed the moon’s chalice fountain which always stands at the formal gate - every last jewel must be given to it. Even the circlet.”

Link sighed.

Ganondorf turned his mare broadside, making Link’s pull up short and dance in irritation. He waited until Link had her settled again, but neither his tone nor expression revealed anything as he rumbled another enigmatic fragment. “I will wait within Nayru’s Flame until nadir. Understand?”

Link bowed with fist over heart, though he understood even less than ever. 

Ganondorf pivoted away and commanded his mare to run. 

Link sat with the hollow ache, watching the dust cloud rise and wisp away behind him. He wondered what he’d done wrong, what he’d  _ said _ wrong, why his beloved king turned away from him. Why he commanded this excursion, then abandoned him with perfect indifference in the middle of the desolate sands.

He wanted to run. 

He wanted to point the mare’s nose into the wind and just  _ go _ .

He wanted to carve the heaviness of longing from his bones and the perpetual sting of not being  _ enough _ and he wanted  _ something _ to fill the hollow place where his purpose used to live.

Link swore at the sunset, and followed his once-enemy.

The fire opals of his platinum circlet ensnared the last rays of sunlight as he held it over the still water of the moon’s chalice fountain. At the hour, a hidden mechanism would open hidden valves and another measure of precious water would well up into the enormous obsidian chalice high above him. It would overflow into the shorter, elaborately carved chalice of gray soapstone, and in turn it would overflow into the low basin of purest white granite before him. By some hidden art, the lowest part of the Moon’s Chalice never ran over nor emptied. He’d seen some women leave their spirit gems and other ornaments in its basin when they came out to an oasis, but he’d never understood why. 

Not that he understood it now either, standing naked and alone within the questionable security of the oasis collonades. Somewhere beyond the looming shadows, purple-veiled Varan surely patrolled, and farther still, the resonant drums and rich brass horns of the nearby estate sang their welcome. Ganondorf surely danced among them already, basking in their adoration - but whatever music the women poured into the twilight, it was  _ not _ the First Hymn of Sands with which they should have welcomed their king.

He never  _ wanted _ to be the Exalted Moon.

He never even wanted to be a hero, in Hyrule or Termina or the golden lands.

Yet a part of him hesitated to place the circlet in the waters with the enameled snake jewels and their shining summerstones.

He didn’t understand the new and awkward reluctance to surrender the last symbol of his rank - and the favor of a foreign king. Watching it sink down through the pure waters made him feel naked and vulnerable all the way to his core. It was somehow even worse than the memory of returning the sword that seals the darkness to its sanctuary for the last time. 

Maybe because he remembered that moment from a thousand different angles already, and this one had no companion.

“In darkness, all ends,” rumbled Ganondorf from shadows which a single breath ago had been empty. “Into darkness return the stars in their circuit, and through darkness all spirits return to the loom of the Eternal. Give unto the darkness your true Name.”

He did not know this ritual. None of his teachers taught him anything of mysteries tied to the oasis beyond the law that the source of life-giving waters could be walled to guard them against the hungry sands, but never against a living seeker. That they could be gated and guarded against poisoners, but never claimed. They could be shaped, dug deeper and purified by magic or machine, but never  _ moved _ .

Water was life, and belonged to no one.

“I am Link,” he stammered at last, in deep confusion. 

The enormous shadow that was Ganondorf loomed closer. “In darkness and chaos the beginning of all things wove into the pattern of Three. Order created Light, Passion created Form, Movement created Life. In the dance of the Great Pattern all things become, and to it all things return.”

“Okay,” breathed Link, heart racing for no reason at all. No light illuminated his king at all, and he wondered if Gan had cloaked himself in a spell of darkness as he so often cloaked his chambers during festival nights. In the public rooms he allowed some torchlight and lanterns and braziers, and though the evening deepened swiftly,  _ some _ little glimmer should have touched the luminous cosmetics or his jewels or his eyes.

“The path is prepared for the spirit who seeks the wisdom and strength of the Bright-Crowned. Accept this token on your tongue, and by it the Mother of Sands will know your courage and devotion,” he said, and a dim red light kindled in his massive hands. It illuminated so little it actually seemed to make the shadows darker. He dipped his broad fingers in the shallow little pot, stirring a bright, sharp scent into the night air. The wind would rouse in earnest soon, but the little stone forest of columns and arches around the heart of the oasis would shield them a little. 

Link drew a deep breath and stuck his tongue out to receive the mysterious paste that smelled like the glare of the noon sun on chartreuse satin.

Fire was not a strong enough word for the intensity of the sacrament which devoured his tongue, his thoughts. Ganondorf took his chin in hand and made him close his mouth around the  _ horrible _ thing as it pulled tears from his eyes and stole his wind. 

His throat closed and threatened to shame him at the same moment.

“The merciful fires await,” said Ganondorf, cradling his burning face in his hands. His thumbs drifted over the stinging tears. His king guided him to turn, to follow the dim amber lights of the eight shielded lanterns marching down the south colonnade guarding the heart of the oasis. “Carry your heart through the circuit of Her spiritroad, or offer it from the highest terrace of the Sun’s Tower as your spirit calls you. Hold  _ nothing _ back.”

Link whimpered in pain, trembling in the hands of his king. He tried a hesitant step. His limbs wept and wailed in agony. He felt weak as a fawn.

Ganondorf stroked a hand through his hair and ghosted his hands over his shoulders. “Open your spirit to the mystery. Liberty is the fruit of surrender.”

Link sniffled and whimpered, struggling to keep his eyes open enough to even  _ see _ the guiding lanterns. He was the Hero. He was strong. He was good at bearing pain.

The thick burning paste on his tongue was excruciating.

Gan took his hands away, melting back into the shadows, and that was even worse.

He counted steps and breaths, and when the waves of torment crested and frayed the number he started over. He tried to think of  _ anything _ but the fire. 

He wept for the pain and for the loneliness, for his folly and his ignorance. He wept for the lives he could barely remember, and he wept for the blood of his beloved on his hands for his errors in this one. 

Every step seemed worse than the last. He turned and turned again to follow the fractured amber blur of too many lanterns. He burned in shame for his weakness and he stumbled on the smooth, sun-warmed tiles. He hurt too much to even  _ look _ for the Sun’s Tower, whatever that was. He’d probably blundered past it anyway. Not that it was likely to be any easier than the misery of the circuit - the Gerudo homeland was harsh and their traditions reflected it.

The darkness seized him, spoiling his balance and dragging him off his course. He flailed in vain - his cruel king would not be moved.

“Breathe,” murmured Ganondorf, dragging him away from the amber lights.

Link whimpered in pathetic desolation. He tried to force his eyes to reveal anything at all, but the amber lights were too small, too far, and their cousins dancing in dizzy abandon at his feet helped even less.

“ _ Breathe _ ,” said Ganondorf, shaking his shoulders.

Link tried to obey. It made the torment worse.

Ganondorf swore softly.

He fell, swift and far, through the very earth into the deepest darkness of all. Shocking cold closed over him, broken only by the strong hands dragging him deeper and the agony still burning on his tongue. He tried to release the breath his king demanded he draw, but the world pushed back, capturing what little he could manage in a hundred startling bubbles that rushed past his face.

_ Water _ .

In the same heartbeat the thought formed, movement caressed his skin, and his core tightened with the sense of rising. When he broke through the surface into the chill night air again, he gasped in spite of himself, and fire slid down his throat. He cried out his agony.

“Surrender,” murmured Ganondorf, stroking his wet hair out of his eyes. “Let the purifying flame move through you. Let go. That pattern is finished.  _ Let go.  _ Give your stones to the merciful fires and to the holy waters and the blessed sands. Stop clinging to ashes and fallen leaves and  _ live _ , Link. Here, now, in  _ this _ moment. Let your spirit move through the storm and be revived to dance a new pattern.”

Link sobbed.

Ganondorf stroked his hair and drew him deeper into the fathomless dark waters. Over and over he recited the same commands, even and steady.

His tongue began to cool, though every breath hurt like he was standing over a blacksmith’s forge instead of clinging to Ganondorf’s shadow because he couldn’t remember how swimming was supposed to work. His toes brushed against stone, and only after the fourth stumbling step did he understand Gan was guiding him up some kind of shallow stair under the water’s surface, different from the steep mathematical precision of the descending spiral terraces the Gerudo built around older oasis. It didn’t make sense, but nothing made sense anymore.

Ganondorf pressed a cup of unglazed clay into his hands. 

He drank more fire.

Different fire.

Just as sharp and clean, but blue-white instead of yellow-green, cold as freezestone pried from a mountain peak.

“ _ Surrender _ ,” murmured Ganondorf, cupping his shoulder as he coughed and spluttered.

“ _ Hurts, _ ” rasped Link, scrubbing a shaking hand over his face.

“Pain guides the spirit on the path of truth,” rumbled Ganondorf. “When a warrior returns to the People, she too passes through Nayru’s Flame to purify the clinging miasma of war and death before she embraces her sisters in peace. It is more than time you do the same.”

“N’you?” Link rasped, drinking more of the cold fire in the distant hope it might tempter the hot one.

“Hn,” said Gan, caressing his hair. “Do your long ears fail you? I am the Great Ganondorf. I am King. I  _ am _ storm and fire and the fastness of stone.”

Link sighed, but it came out as more of a whimper. It was hard to think of anything but the burning for more than a heartbeat or three together. Which was probably the point.

Gan bowed over him and pressed his lips ever so briefly to his brow - less of a kiss than a whisper enfleshed. 

Link fumbled to grasp at his wet skin, begging wordlessly for more.

“Hn,” said Gan, tracing a fingertip down the line of his jaw.

“ _ Please _ ,” rasped Link. “Just once more - let there be  _ soft _ on  _ this _ side of forever?”

“Patience,” murmured Ganondorf into his hair. “Two hours.”

“Ok,” said Link, though his heart clenched in the same pain as before.

Nayru’s Flame had not, in fact, healed anything at all.

Midnight stars peered through the open windows, and the night wind nipped at his sweaty skin. Somewhere in the darkness, there were blankets. Soft black lambswool with gold borders, no doubt. He hadn’t really noticed.

The cold hurt.

It was hard to care.

Ganondorf held him to his broad, scarred chest, panting for breath. His eyes were closed, but that was fine. He’d cried out when he came this time, and his striking features glistened with sweat in the soft light of the one and only lamp he allowed in the borrowed chamber.

_ I did good. _

Link savored the rise and fall and the ragged sound, and filled his senses with beloved spice. When the burn of the Viper’s Kiss finally eased, it left every nerve raw, sharpening taste and texture and flavor to feverish intensity. The welcome of the humble estate followed the same pattern as ever, though the women had waited a long time for the oasis rituals to be finished and their late arrival delayed the evening meal. Ganondorf gave half an hour after the Kharish began to clear away the bowls to hear petitions, and declared he would hear the rest at the fourth hour of the following morning.

The state rooms were small, but they stood above a block of storehouses, much like those in the Karsooda Davayu estate in the far west, well removed from any of the other sleeping quarters. Ganondorf did not ask him to follow, but neither did he ask for the women to prepare a room for him. 

However many moments snuck past them between the click of the door latch and the joining of flesh, whatever Gan said about the ritual or the estate or the ride or whatever didn’t matter now. His king embraced him, and the balance of the world was right again.


End file.
